


we could be heroes (just for one day)

by brawls (brawlite), ToAStranger



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fix-It, Food, Gore, Gunshot Wounds, Home Invasion, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Malnutrition, Medical Experimentation, Murder, Nightmares, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, Post-Season/Series 03, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Slow Burn, Vomit, chapter specific warnings are more in depth
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-06-25 10:30:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 63,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19743859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brawlite/pseuds/brawls, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToAStranger/pseuds/ToAStranger
Summary: It's autumn of 1985. The summer changed everything, and it feels like nothing will ever be the same.But for Steve Harrington, strange seems to be the new normal.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> And here we go. 
> 
> Not sure how long this will be. I just know I've got a million and five ideas and brawls is kind enough to put up with me.

Thursday nights are usually pretty quiet. 

"No," Steve says, plucking the VHS out of Dustin's hands. "No, no, no."

Granted, most Thursday nights are not Halloween. 

The video store next to the arcade is packed. They're closing early tonight, before the streets are properly flooded with kids in costumes, and it's packed full of people trying to get their evening scares from the cheapest place. Steve's got a headache, Keith keeps giving him dirty looks, and Robin laughed at him the second the boys walked in with Max. 

Though, admittedly, playing chaperone to the kids as they snoop through the horror section is better than dealing with the checkout counter. Or being on rewind duty. He's been on rewind duty for a week.

"Steve--"

Steve shoves the movie back on the shelf. "You think Keith is gonna let you walk out with an R- rated flick? It's not gonna happen."

"What is the point of you working here if you can't score us a scary movie?" Dustin asks. 

Steve rolls his eyes. "I don't work here for _you_."

"Yeah, but there should be _benefits_ ," Dustin says. 

"I told you this wouldn't work," Mike says, that perpetual pout on his face, even as Max punches his arm. 

"Guys, cool it," she says, and then turns her focus on Steve, smiling and rocking up on her toes. "You'll figure something out for us, right, Steve? Like with the movie theater?"

Dustin looks just as hopeful. Lucas, too. All smiling; all giving him those big eyes. 

Groaning, Steve scrubs a hand over his face. "Fine. _Fine_ , yes, I'll-- Jesus christ, make me a list and then go wait at the arcade until we close."

Dustin beams in delight. "Awesome!"

"Told you," Max says, nudging her shoulder into Mike's before catching Lucas around the wrist. "Catch you later, Steve!"

She drags Lucas out, Mike not far behind, as Dustin starts listing potential movies off. He trails behind Steve as he makes the rounds, fixing the movies on their shelves and shooing a group of girls away from their newest cardboard cut out.

He's wheeling a basket of returns over to the back wall, Dustin still on his heels, when the list-- _Poltergeist, The Shining, Nightmare on Elm Street_ \-- gets a little out of hand. 

"Whoa, whoa, shitbird," Steve says, shoving the tapes up for display. "You're not gonna watch _all_ these movies _tonight_."

"No, I know, just-- we're gonna stay in and call Will and El from Mike's basement and we don't know what movie they're gonna have but we're gonna try and, like, watch it _together_ \--"

" _Okay_ ," Steve cuts him off, waving his hands back and forth. "Okay, okay, I get it. I'll get you a variety pack."

Dustin grins, patting him on the back. "You're the best, dude. And you can always join us."

"No," Steve scoffs out a little laugh. "I'm, uh. I'm busy tonight."

His gaze skirts to Robin, behind the counter. Dustin follows it, grin growing wider, brows going up and down. 

"Oh, yeah? Got something special planned?"

"Yeah," Steve sighs. "Something special."

***

"You're a pushover," Robin tells him as they lock up, eyeing the plastic bag of VHS tapes dangling from his fingers. "A total and complete pushover."

"Shove it," Steve says.

"What? Like it's not true? Those strange little children have you _wrapped_ around their fingers."

"Is that such a bad thing?" 

"I didn't say that."

Steve gives the lock a final twist, turning to face her. "No, you didn't _say_ it. It was implied."

Hand to her chest, Robin gasps. "He _learns_."

"Shut up," Steve laughs, brushing by her and heading for the arcade entrance. 

"Real original, dingus." Robin chimes, trailing along with him. "So, any plans tonight?"

"I was gonna ask you the same thing."

Robin smiles. It’s a big, bright thing -- the kind of smile he sees way more often now that they’re actually friends. 

Before, he used to only see her smile at his expense. Now, it’s a solid fifty-fifty. Sometimes she’s laughing _at_ him, and sometimes she’s just -- well, she’s just _happy_ and she wants to share it with him. Which is cool. He can’t lie -- even if he’s having a crummy day, if Robin’s in a good mood, he usually feels better just being in her proximity.

“I do, actually,” she says, looking sly. 

She holds up a copy of _Poltergeist_ and waves it around in the air a little. 

“Did you _know_ ,” she says, “that this movie is _perfect_ for cuddling?”

Steve blinks a few times, nose scrunching up. "Seriously?"

“Yep, so, my schedule’s pretty booked. Some of us have halloween dates. You’re gonna have to figure out something else to do, loser.”

At least she’s not straight up mean when she says it, patting him on the arm like he’s some sort of _good sport_ , losing the soccer match to someone with way more game.

Still, it doesn't mean he's not sort of bummed. Not sort of jealous. Not sort of _curious_. 

"Just tell me it's not Tammy," Steve says, instead of _asking_. 

“It’s not Tammy,” Robin says, in such a way that Steve has _no_ idea if she’s actually being serious or not. And, knowing Robin, she’s not about to give him any clues. 

Hands up, his bag of contraband dangling from one thumb, Steve shrugs. "Alright, don't tell me. Keep your secrets. It's not like, oh, I dunno, I let you in on all of _my_ biggest secrets."

“You already know my _biggest_ secrets. Don’t get greedy, Steve Harrington.”

Steve bobs his head. "Yeah, alright. I mean, I've got plans, too, so."

He doesn't. He's pretty sure Robin _knows_ that. But it feels good to say it. 

“Uh huh,” she says, knocking the tapes so that the plastic cases thunk together. “Have a fun halloween, Steve. Don’t get into too much trouble!”

"No promises," he says, watching her run off, standing there on the curb. "Don't have too much fun without me!"

She flips him off with a smile, climbing into her car-- a beat up yellow VW she got at the end of summer-- and pulling out of the lot. Steve watches her drive away before a rumble of thunder from overhead startles him into movement. 

It's already dark, but there are thick clouds in the sky. He thinks he remembers something about a late night storm on the news that morning. 

He checks his watch, clicking his tongue as he realizes the kids have been waiting for at least two hours. Jogging the last few steps between the video store and the arcade, he steps in, just as the kids are starting to step out. 

"Steve!" Dustin perks up, instantly snatching the bag from his hand, and Steve huffs as Lucas and Mike start rummaging through it with him. "They were kicking us out; you're right on time."

"Everything's closing up early tonight," Steve says. 

“That’s because everyone has better things to be doing,” Lucas says. “Including us.”

"I'm sorry, was that a _thank you, Steve_?" Steve asks, arms folding over his chest. 

Lucas rolls his eyes. "Thank you, Steve--"

"Is this _Fantasia?"_ Mike asks, face scrunching up. 

Steve shrugs. "It was on Dustin's list."

Dustin groans. "No. _Phantasm,_ Steve. I wanted _Phantasm."_

"Are you assholes seriously complaining?"

“I _guess_ not,” Lucas says, at the same time as Mike says, “ _Yes._ ”

“No, we’re not complaining,” Dustin finally grouches. “But _only_ because Fantasia is actually okay.”

Max covers her mouth, half hiding a laugh, and Dustin scowls at her. 

"Whatever," Steve says. "You guys need a ride? It's supposed to rain."

"We biked," Lucas says. "But thanks."

“What, you wanna bike through the rain?”

“We’re not _wusses_ , Harrington,” Max says, before sticking her tongue out. 

It _almost_ knocks Steve for a loop, the tone of her voice, the way his last name sounds on her lips. She’s teasing, playful -- but she sounded, for just one moment there, so very much like her brother. 

"Right," he says, clearing his throat. "Well, when you catch pneumonia, don't come whining to me."

"Whatever," Mike says, already heading off with the movies in hand, Lucas right at his heels, still poking around in the bag. "Catch you later, Steve."

"Thanks again, Steve," Max says, darting in for a quick hug before dashing off after them. 

Dustin is the one, as always, who hovers. "You sure you don't wanna join us?"

"I'm sure," Steve says. "Like I said-- I've got plans."

Dustin nods, though his eyes are narrowed. After all, Robin’s gone, not lingering around waiting for Steve like she sometimes does when they’re going to hang out. But he doesn’t say anything, perhaps because he’s feeling as charitable as a young teenager can get, or perhaps just because he’s eager to get home and start his horror movie marathon.

“If you’re sure,” Dustin says. “But you’re welcome to show up whenever, if -- if whatever, you know?”

"Yeah, I know," Steve says on a half laugh of a thing, scrubbing at Dustin's hair. "Stay safe tonight, Henderson. No funny business with any monsters or Russians."

“You too, Steve,” Dustin says, batting his hand away. “You too.”

***

Steve knows there's a party he could go to tonight. Knows there's probably a couple. 

Last Halloween, all he'd wanted was a normal night out with Nancy. It's crazy, sometimes, thinking back a year and realizing how much has _changed_ . How many people are just _gone._

That the summer changed _so much_ . That it changed _everything._

He thinks that's probably why he drives around until he ends up at what remains of Starcourt. It's dark and the rain is just starting when he pulls into the empty parking lot. 

He and Robin come up here, sometimes, after work. Just to sit and talk and pass a joint back and forth. It's not that unusual for him to strip off his vest from the video store, toss it in the back seat, and go rummaging around in his glove box for the baggy he keeps there. It's not even that unusual that he's here alone. 

Sometimes he even sleeps here. 

It's sad that he feels more welcome, here, where he was beaten and drugged and scared for his (and the kids') lives _again_ , rather than at home, where it's empty more often than not. His dad's disdain lingers in the halls. It's somehow more difficult to swallow than the dread and fear of facing down Russians and giant monsters.

The rain patters against the roof of the car; the windshield. It's dark; there are no more neon lights shining from the parking lot of the abandoned Starcourt Mall. The only light comes from Steve's dash and the occasional flash of lightning. Phil Collins is crooning on the radio. 

Steve pulls out a joint and lighter from the bag in his lap, placing the blunt between his lips and fumbling with the lighter. He spits out a faint curse from the corner of his mouth, rolling his eyes as the flame flickers and dies. 

"C'mon, you piece of shit."

There's a low roll of thunder. So deep it practically shakes the car.

Steve glances out the windshield, squinting, flicking at the lighter. The flame catches.

The lightning flashes, brighter and closer than before. Standing, silhouetted by the arc of light in the sky, is a broad figure maybe a yard from the nose of his car. 

Steve's entire body _jerks_ , heart jumping into his throat until he's choking on it. The lighter falls into his lap, joint following, as Steve curses and scrambles to turn the key in the ignition. 

The engine rumbles to life, right as another stroke of lightning flares. His headlights flood the area with light, catching on the figure in front of his car. 

Steve freezes. Phil Collins drones on-- _Billy, don't you lose my number, cuz you're not anywhere that I can find you--_ ringing in Steve's ears. 

Because standing in front of his car, in the pouring rain, flinching away from the light, is Billy Hargrove. 

Steve can't help it; he stares. "Holy shit."


	2. I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Billy is cold. An hour ago he was running through the woods in the rain, feet bare and torn up. He wasn't sure exactly where he had been running _to_ but against all odds, he ends up at Steve Harrington's house.

His first memories are of the ocean.

The sound of it, the smell, the taste-- the way it crashed against the shore. The way the sun glistened off the waves like fire. The way it rolled and receded and then climbed up the beach, always reaching for _more._

He remembers the ocean and he's _happy_.

***

It's raining. That's the first thing he realizes when he starts running. It's raining and he's _cold_ and he _hates it_.

It's raining and he doesn't know where he is. That's the second thing he realizes.

He doesn't know _where he is._ He doesn't know _who_ he is.

But he's running and he knows he needs to _keep running_.

So he doesn't stop. Not in the woods. Not when his thin pants are soaked and torn. Not when he breaks free of dirt and underbrush and hits gravel and asphalt. Not when his feet start bleeding.

The cold rain cascades down his face, dripping over his eyes and blurring his vision as he pushes forward. The rain clings to his eyelashes like tears.

He has to _be_ somewhere. He knows it. He _knows_ he needs to be _somewhere._

He was-- he was _building_ something. Something that wasn't-- something that wasn't _finished_.

He was building something.

***

His best memories are of a woman.

He can't always make out her face. It gets lost in this fog, this miasma of shadow and blood.

But if he closes his eyes and concentrates, he thinks he can hear her laughter. Can feel her brushing sand away from his face. Can smell her; coconut and sunshine and _warmth_.

He remembers a woman. And then, he remembers a girl.

A girl like fire. Burning red. Fury like a gunshot wound. Eyes so wide. So much like staring into a mirror.

He remembers a girl.

***

The rain doesn't let up.

He knows he's going in the right direction. Feels it. He just doesn't know where that is.

***

His worst memories are cold.

The dark of a basement. The cracked tiles of a shower. The sharp sting in his chest.

The lab.

He remembers screaming. Remembers shaking. Remembers crying, strapped to a freezing metal table, bleeding black, the buzz of something in his ears as they shaved his head, as they hooked him up to a million monitors.

He remembers being so, so cold.

***

He's shivering by the time he gets where he’s supposed to be. Teeth chattering, body shaking with bone shuddering quakes that ripple up through him as he pads on bloody feet, blindly, toward the building in front of him.

Big and empty. Looming in the dark. An aching void against a pitch sky.

But then there's light. Burning his eyes, his face, his skin.

Then-- then there's _music_.

 _Billy_.

_Billy, don't--_

" _Billy_?" A voice calls; a crack of a door shutting follows. "Billy, holy shit, is that _you?"_

"Billy," he repeats, dumb, numb, voice a wreck. The name catches in his throat.

There's a man in front of him. Dark hair plastered to his forehead. Shirt sticking to his shoulders, his chest, his back. Eyes big and brown.

There's a man in front of him and he _knows_ him.

"Are you--?" The man laughs, a hysterical sound, but it's nice all the same. Familiar, anyway. "Jesus, Billy, you're _dead_."

"Billy," he repeats, again. Then, it clicks: "I'm Billy."

"Yes, _you're_ Billy. Billy Hargrove. And I'm Steve and your sister's Max and _you're_ Billy and we--" the man's voice cracks as he yells over the rain, over the thunder. "And we _buried_ you, man."

"Steve," he says, eyes going wide as his head _aches_ with the effort of thinking. "Harrington."

"Yes! Steve Harrington. You remember me?"

He stares at Steve through the rain, squinting against the light. He stares and he _remembers_.

And then his knees give out from underneath him.

***

When he comes to, it's with Steve "The Hair" Harrington trying to pull him out of his car in the pouring rain. It's with his head throbbing, his teeth aching, that Steve "Pretty Boy" Harrington drags him up onto his feet and up the front patio to a large house.

"Where th'fuck are we?" he slurs, head lolling, eyes threatening to burst right out of his skull.

"You with me, again?" Steve asks, grunting as he hefts most of Billy's weight up after him, fumbling them both through the front door.

Then, Steve loses his momentum, and perhaps the last of his energy -- and they both fall, face first onto the foyer carpet. It hurts, but in the dull sort of way that all of him hurts already, so it doesn’t add much. Just a little scrape over a wound that’s already raw. “ _Shit_ ,” he hears.

Billy groans and feels himself shift as Steve flips him onto his back so that now, instead of staring at the multitude of colors on the carpet, he can zone out at the stark whiteness of the ceiling. He gasps when hands, hot as sin itself, frame his face and tilt his head back.

"Hargrove, are you with me?" Steve asks, those dark eyes hunting over his face. " _Billy?"_

Billy groans again. God, talking is so _hard_ and so is staying awake; it really feels like Steve is asking a hell of a lot of him right now. Billy just ran here, all the way from what feels like _hell_ , and now Steve isn’t letting him take a goddamn _nap_.

“Five more minutes,” he slurs, and then closes his eyes again to blissful darkness.

"No-- hey, hey, Billy, c'mon," Steve jostles him a little, water rolling down to drip off the tip of his nose onto Billy's face. "C'mon, you gotta help me out here, okay?"

“Such a buzzkill,” Billy mumbles, but he pries his eyes open again after Steve smacks him on the cheek. It’s not _hard_ , but it does make a sound, the slap of wet skin against skin. “Careful with th’ merchandise, _Harrington_.” He thinks those words come out intelligible. It doesn’t really matter if they don’t.

The house is so bright. The night outside was so dark.

The lights in the lab were always on, always bright. Even when Billy closed his eyes there, it was always so bright.

The darkness reminds him of the calm place he found inside himself, the one He helped Billy find.

“Can we turn off the lights?” Billy asks, when Steve jostles him again after his eyes slip closed for longer than a blink.

"Sure, yeah, whatever you want," Steve babbles, sitting back and trying to pull Billy with him. "Just gotta-- we gotta get you to the couch, first, okay?"

Billy grunts something that feels vaguely like an affirmation, letting Steve do most of the work to haul him to the couch. Either Steve doesn’t notice, or he pretends not to notice that Billy’s a lot lighter than he used to be. He doesn’t exactly _remember_ what he’s supposed to be like, but he feels small. Like he used to take up more space than he is now. The couch cushions still sag with his weight though, as Steve deposits him onto the floral monstrosity, and Billy lets himself fall half-sideways into overstuffed cushions.

He can't really focus on much. It takes too much effort to parse through so many different sensations.

But he can feel when Steve lets him go. Can tell when the lights dim. Can hear Steve's sneakers squeak and squelch as he scrambles out of the room, muttering under his breath-- _gotta get him dry and warm._

After that, for a long moment, it's quiet. There's distant noises, things he can barely make out, but he's dozing between the _thump_ of feet on stairs and the clatter of cabinet doors.

He wakes up to Steve toweling off his head. Vaguely, Billy gets the sense-memory that there should be wet hair dangling into his face -- but there’s not. The towel just works over the fuzz of a fresh buzz-cut, which is a new sensation entirely.

Distantly, Billy realizes he’s shivering.

“‘S cold,” Billy says, but when he opens his eyes, it’s dark, and that’s a blissful relief. He doesn’t see the pale green of laboratory tiles, isn’t greeted with flickering fluorescent lights. Just the dim outline of a living room he’s never been in and the silhouette of Steve crouched in front of him.

"I've got blankets," Steve tells him, but he's still dragging the towel-- so soft, so damn _soft_ \-- over Billy’s torso, hesitating and faltering over the jagged, ripped edges of pale skin on his chest and his sides. "Um. Um, but-- but your pants are soaked, so. So, you aren't gonna get warm with them on-- I brought you sweat pants."

Billy grunts again and closes his eyes. It feels like the right time to say something mean, something biting, but Billy can’t find the words. He feels like he’s slept too much, like he hasn’t slept at all, and he just doesn’t _care_. When Steve finishes drying off his torso and steps back, Billy wriggles enough to shuck the pants. They’re thin and cotton, like scrubs, but all white. Steve, eyes now averted, clumily hands Billy the sweats, which are, in stark contrast, thick and soft and warm.

Once they’re on, Billy pulls his feet up onto the couch, tucking himself into the corner, still so goddamn cold, but at least now he’s dry. The pants are soft. There’s a comfort to them, something real and tangible and indulgent -- so much better than thin, flimsy cotton.

Steve is quick to _smother him_ with blankets. One right after the other, tucking them around Billy's shoulders, his sides, his legs, until he's a cocoon. Billy doesn't think he's ever seen Steve this frantic.

"Okay. Okay, do you-- Are you, uhh--" Steve wets his lips, sitting on the edge of the couch next to him, hands hovering like he's looking for another edge to tuck in. "Stupid question, of course you're not okay, but do you, like, need anything? I don't-- I don't really know what to _do_ here, man, so I'm gonna make a call but do you-- I mean, are you thirsty?"

Suddenly, Billy feels like he could be possibly dying of thirst.

But the panic very quickly overrides that, setting his teeth on edge.

“Don’t,” he swallows, trying to sound less _scared_. His heart feels like it’s in his throat. “Don’t _call_ anyone.”

"I-- Billy," Steve says. "I gotta call _someone_ \--"

Billy can’t think of _why_. He closes his eyes for a little while again, trying to think, until Steve shakes him. Those warm hands don’t touch Billy’s skin anymore, though. Instead, they just fall on the blankets.

“No phones,” Billy says. “Could be tapped. Do you have one of those stupid --” Billy grunts, searching for a word for a second before he finds it. “Walkie-talkies?”

Steve stares, blinking down at him, brows knitting together. "How do you--? I mean, yeah, but--"

“But?” Billy asks, letting his eyes fall closed to the darkness again.

"But-- nevermind. I'll, uh. I'll give it a shot." Steve says, clearing his throat, and then he's pushing away again.

It feels safe. Safer than a phone would be. Besides, the only person Steve could reach via walkie-talkie would be Max (or the rest of her friends, right?) not -- Billy’s father. Who doesn’t need to know Billy was safe and sound, found by golden boy Steve Harrington.

And that begs the question, really. What does Billy’s father _think_? What was he told, if he was told anything at all. Not that -- well, not that Billy’s all too clear on the details, himself.

Neil probably just thought he ran away amidst the chaos and was too chickenshit to come crawling back home after a couple weeks. Billy’s not too sure exactly how long he was in that lab, but it couldn’t’ve been more than a month.

But -- it’s awful fucking cold for August.

“Do I have a fever?” he asks, but Steve isn’t in front of him anymore.

He can hear Steve, though.

He thinks he's in the kitchen. He can hear the water running from the tap. Can hear the crackle of static from the radio between pauses.

"Um, shit, code red. Henderson, can you hear me? I've got a code red."

 _Code red_ , Billy thinks. _So dramatic._

He doesn’t feel hazy, like he has a fever. Not dizzy, either. Just cold. _So_ cold.

"Dustin? Any-fucking-one?" He can hear Steve curse. Can hear him smack the plastic and metal of the walkie. "We've got a code fucking red, over here."

Can hear everything _._

Including when Steve slams the walkie down and snags a phone off the receiver.

He hears the press of the first few buttons, then he’s off the couch and on his feet before he can even think about it, throwing blankets off as he rushes into the kitchen.

Billy grabs the phone out of Steve’s hand and slams it back down on the receiver, heart pounding in his chest.

“Don’t be an _idiot_!”

Steve startles back from him, eyes wide, hands up. Like a preemptive surrender.

"The storm isn't letting anything through on the walkie," Steve says. "I'm just gonna call the Wheeler house. All the kids are there tonight--"

“Yeah, and you’re gonna say _what_ , exactly?”

"I don't know, that you're _alive_?"

“That I’m _what_?” Billy feels a little wobbly on his feet. “Of course I’m _alive_. What, did you think I wasn’t?”

Steve's expression twists.

Billy hadn't realized, not really, the way he'd been looking at him before. His hands in the air, his eyes wide, his shoulders locked. Like Billy might _hurt_ him.

But he recognizes it as Steve's features break into something terribly like _concern_.

"Billy," he says, soft and low, shuffling forward a step. "Do you remember what happened?"

Billy furrows his brow, thinking. It hurts to think, though, and he’s been trying _not_ to. Whenever he tries, he just thinks of the bright lab, which just gives him a headache. He tries to think back _before_ that, though, to when he wasn’t alone. To the time when he was a prisoner in his own body.

It all slips back, piece by piece. Like a dam bursting inside his head.

“The mall,” he says, swallowing a pain in his throat. “It hurt, so much.”

Fighting Him, with every ounce of himself.

“I don’t --” Billy says, remembering the way the tendril shot into his chest, the way he felt like he was being torn apart from the inside, vein by vein. He remembers the _relief_ he felt, when he started to feel his consciousness slip away. Just nothingness, just warmth. And then he remembers waking up, surrounded by _brightness_. He remembers...more pain. “I don’t remember,” he says.

"Okay," Steve's head bobs, throat working. "Okay. That's-- that's fine. Hey, why don't we go sit down, huh?"

Billy sways a little on his feet.

He looks at the phone.

“It’s really cold for August,” he says, lightheaded and a little dopey.

Steve's throat works. "That's-- that's because it's not August, Billy. It's Halloween. It's October."

“Oh,” Billy says, reaching a hand out for the counter to steady himself. He takes a breath, then another. “Max has thought I was dead for four months?”

It’s weirdly the only thing he can bring himself to focus on, but it feels heavy, pressing.

Steve's mouth opens and then shuts again as he nods. "Yeah. Yeah, we all thought-- Yeah."

Billy nods too, and lifts his hand off the counter. With heavy feet, he leaves the kitchen and moves back into the living room to fall back down onto the couch. There’s only one blanket left, but he drapes it over his shoulders, feeling a little more numb than cold, now.

“I want her to know,” Billy says, finally. “But you can’t call her. Don’t know if it’s safe.”

Steve rounds the couch, arms full of blankets. He crouches in front of Billy, placing the bundle in his lap and smoothing it out over his legs.

"Okay," he says, glancing up at him. "I won't call her. I can-- I could go get her, if you want? But-- we should get you warm. Get you cleaned up. Okay?"

“No, it’s --” Billy says, suddenly very stupidly panicked at the idea of Steve leaving to get her. He doesn’t know if its the idea of being _alone_ , or the idea of something happening to either Steve or Max while they’re en-route -- but he doesn’t want it. “It can wait. You said it’s Halloween, right? Are they watching shitty horror movies?”

Steve scoffs out a laugh, eyes straying down, tips off his ears coloring for reasons Billy can't guess. "Yeah. Yeah, that's exactly what they're doing. Probably wouldn't have got through on the line, anyway. They're supposed to be on the phone with Will and El."

Billy nods again, feeling fuzzy. “‘S what halloween is _for_ , Harrington.”

Then, he yawns, fatigue hitting him all at once like walking into a brick wall.

"Yeah," Steve says, then reaches up and presses Billy back into the soft couch cushions. "Rest. I'm gonna get the first aid kit."

Billy means to complain. He really does.

But the allure of sleep is just too strong, and the darkness behind his eyelids feels way too inviting.

And so, bundled up in blankets on Steve Harrington’s couch, he sleeps.

***

There's sunlight pouring in through the sliding glass windows when he wakes.

He doesn't remember dreaming. No nightmares of labs or shadows to haunt him. But there's a sheen of sweat on his skin like maybe he did.

When he shifts, blankets falling aside, he finds his feet bandaged up and propped at the other end of the couch. His right hand is, too-- though, he doesn't remember it being hurt. He just remembers being cold all over.

Now, in the morning light, he can feel the ache in his bones. His feet and the fingers on his right hand throb. His skin feels too tight. His head _hurts_.

There's a snort somewhere to his right. He jerks over, eyes darting toward the sound, and he finds Steve Harrington asleep in a chair next to him. Slumped over like he spent the night watching over _Billy._

Billy watches him back for a moment, like his brain is still trying to assess whether or not Steve Harrington’s a threat, which is _hilarious_ , because Steve Harrington was never a threat -- not in any way that matters now, anyway. Steve doesn’t move, doesn’t snort or snore again, and so Billy decides that the coast is clear. He pushes himself up carefully from the couch, drapes just one blanket over his bare shoulders, and pads into the kitchen on sore feet.

It’s a dull sort of pain, a distant ache. All of him hurts like that, though -- probably less than it _should_ , he thinks, as he glances down at his stomach. The parts that throb, throb. But generally, it’s a manageable sort of pain. He idly pokes at a couple of the cuts and scrapes on his chest, assessing the damage while Steve’s coffee machine grumbles to life and begins percolating away.

Then, Billy finds every ounce of edible food in the Harrington kitchen and gets to work, trying to fill the empty feeling that’s suddenly made itself known inside his gut.

That’s how Steve finds him: sitting at the Harrington kitchen table, second cup of coffee in one hand, forkful of cold mac-n-cheese in the other. Billy doesn’t startle, though -- he heard Steve jerk awake in the other room, heard him shuffling in on tired feet.

Honestly, he should just be glad it’s Steve, and not one of Steve’s parents. That’d be a bitch to explain.

“Morning sunshine,” Billy says.

Steve blinks at him, hair wild, sleep still creasing his face. "Um. Morning."

“You’re out of bread,” Billy says. By which he means: _I ate two loaves of it, and now you’re out._ “There’s coffee.”

"Coffee," Steve says and nods, padding over to the percolator and pulling a mug down from the cabinets. "Coffee is good."

Steve fills the mug to the brim and then chugs half of it down before topping it off, again. He sighs, eyes shut, and leans against the counter, like he's still trying to wake up.

He's still in the same clothes from the night before. Like he couldn't even leave Billy alone long enough to change.

After a moment, he blinks over at Billy, smile terse. "How are you feeling?"

Billy shrugs. Other than the dull ache everywhere, he hasn’t really _thought_ about how he’s feeling. And he doesn’t really want to, still. His body feels -- not quite like his own.

“Hungry,” he says, instead.

Steve gaze flits over the table. "I can tell."

Billy takes another bite of cold, cheesy noodles. It’s the cheap shit, the kind you get at the grocery store for fifty cents. It’s the _best_ kind, Billy thinks. He’s not sure he’s ever eaten anything better.

“Well, this is weird,” Billy says, finally, through another bite of pasta.

What he really means is: _This is absolutely fucked up and I have no idea what to think or what to do with myself._

Steve makes a face and then pads over, sliding into the chair across from him. "Yeah. It's-- not as weird for me."

When Billy blinks at him, brow up like a question, Steve shrugs.

"Strange things happen like clockwork in this town," he says. "Finding out you're-- well, _not dead_ isn't all that crazy."

Billy huffs. “Yeah, well. We can’t all be experts. Finding out you’re supposed to be dead is strange as shit.” He takes another fork-full of noodles and shoves them into his mouth. “I remember you. There. That night. I tried to run you over with my car.”

Steve grimaces. "Other way around, actually. I hit you with mine."

Billy frowns. “I tried to hit someone with my car. That wasn't you?”

"Nancy," Steve says. "She was shooting at you. Jonathan and a couple of the kids were in the car."

Billy swallows. “Was Max?”

"No," Steve sips his coffee, voice dropping a bit. "She was, uh… she was still in the mall."

There’s a story there. But Billy doesn’t particularly want to ask. He can ask for the details later, when everything’s not so -- fresh.

Even though it _shouldn’t_ be fresh, given that it’s apparently fucking _October_.

“Maybe you shouldn’t tell her,” Billy finally says. He can put two and two together. He remembers enough, even if most of it is shadowy afterthoughts, to know the majority of what he did.

Steve stares at him for a long second.

Then, he blinks and shakes his head. "Don't be stupid. She'll kill me if I don't tell her, and then she'll kill _you_ for suggesting it."

“Maybe you forgot, but _I_ tried to kill _her_. Actually.”

"And?" Steve frowns. "You were possessed by the Mind Flayer at the time. Besides, you tried to kill _me_ when you _weren't_ , and you don't see me getting mad about it."

That-- that's a lot to unpack. Billy's not quite sure where to even _start_.

So, he just pushes away from the table and walks over to get himself more coffee. That’s easy.

He takes a sip, swishes it around in his mouth for a second before swallowing. Then: “Actually, why _are_ you helping me?”

"Um," Steve's face does some interesting acrobatics before he shrugs. "I guess because I'm not an asshole? And you need help?"

“And you just -- are looking past that time I nearly killed you?”

Steve's nose scrunches up. "Wouldn't be the first time I nearly died."

That -- well, it’s honestly not surprising. Nothing really is, at this point. Well, maybe except for the fact that Max would actually be upset if Billy somehow manages to keep his status as _Alive and Kicking_ from her.

“Right,” Billy says. “Well, do you think you can radio her today? Looks like the storm’s over, and I’d prefer to keep this shit off the phones.”

The idea of a reunion makes him nervous, shifty, unsure. He thinks it’s probably better to deal with it like a band-aid, to rip it off as fast as possible.

At the same time, though, he aches to see her. To make sure that she’s fine, to show her he is, too.

More or less, anyway.

"Sure thing," Steve nods, pushing to his feet. "Let me get changed and then I'll call her up."


	3. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reunions and introductions. Steve's tired, but there's a lot that has to get done. This is only the very beginning, he knows.

Not for the first time since July, Steve wishes Hopper or Joyce were around.

Last night, with Billy Hargrove passed out and bleeding in his passenger seat, Steve had nearly driven them straight to the Byers' place before he realized that no one would be there. He'd nearly hydroplaned, skidding his car on the road, when he'd whipped around to head back to his house.

He had never been more grateful that his parents were out of town, again.

Because explaining to them why he was dragging a formerly assumed dead man into their home in the middle of the night would've been _impossible._ Dad probably would've called the police.

But they weren't, and Steve knew he couldn't take Billy to the Wheeler's. Not with so many people in the house who would ask too many questions that Steve didn't have the answers to.

Which was how he ended up with Billy Hargrove asleep on his couch, bundled up and still shivering. Bruised and bloody. With time missing and hair shorn off and body diminished into something pale and thin.

He's worried, when he picks up the walkie the next morning. Worried that maybe Billy isn't ready for all of this-- but he has no one to ask.

It's maddening, but Steve realizes that _he_ is the adult, now. The only one around that can watch after everyone.

It's _terrifying._

"Henderson," Steve says, into the walkie, pulling out the antenna. "Henderson, do you copy?"

There's a rush of static as he waits, chewing on the quick of his right thumb, bouncing as he paces in the living room.

Billy's watching him, wrapped up in one of Steve's old sweaters and two blankets, another cup of coffee in hand. It makes Steve _itch_. Makes him feel painfully _seen_ with Billy's blue eyes tracking him like he's prey.

"Henderson! Wake up, shitbird!"

" _Jesus, Steve,_ what?" Comes crackling in reply, and Steve can't help but beam. _"Do you know how late we were up last night?"_

"Not my problem," Steve says. "Listen, I need you to put Max on."

_"What?"_

Steve rolls his eyes. "Listen, Captain Knowhere, this is a code red, now put Maxine on the fucking radio."

“ _What do you want, Harrington_?” Max says. Steve can imagine the way they just scuffled over the walkie-talkie, and his assumption is verified when there’s little bits of static cutting in and out, like they’re still grabbing at it, Max now trying to play keep-away.

Steve frowns down at the receiver. "Dude. Check the attitude. I have good news, just for you, so get over to my place ASAP."

Another burst of static.

“ _Code red doesn’t equate with_ good news, _Steve_ ,” Dustin says.

Steve glances over at Billy. "Yeah, well, it's fucking _both,_ okay?"

“ _Are you_ okay _?”_ Max asks.

From across the room, Steve hears Billy snort.

"I'm not hurt or in danger," Steve says, then frowns, because when he found Billy last night he was in medical pants and his hair was shaved off and-- "Well, not immediate danger. I don't think."

There’s quiet, for just a moment. Then: “ _We’re on our way. Over and out.”_

“Great,” Billy says. Steve watches him flop sideways onto the couch. “We get the whole gaggle of them.”

"It's kind of a buy-one-get-all thing." Steve says, a bit apologetically.

Billy sighs. “Guess so.” But it sounds a little put-upon, like maybe Billy doesn’t _mind_.

Then again, it’s not like Steve’s never had _any_ idea what goes on in Billy Hargrove’s mind, and he definitely doesn’t _now_.

"You gonna be okay with this?" Steve asks, even though he feels like it's a stupid question.

Billy shrugs. “Pretty sure it could be worse. Pretty sure it _has_ been worse. I can deal with a bunch of annoying kids.”

Steve nods.

Billy continues, after a moment. But he sounds way less sure of himself. “Is, uh. There’s a girl. I don’t know her name. Is she going to be here?”

"El," Steve says. "She's-- she moved. Away, with the Byers. After Hop died, Joyce-- Will's mom-- took her in. They're in Indianapolis."

“Hop -- wait, Chief Hopper _died_?”

"Yeah, uh. _Shit._ "

Steve drags a hand over his face and then moves over, taking a seat on the coffee table in front of Billy, elbows resting on his knees. He's not sure he wants to have this conversation. He's not even sure how he's supposed to.

But Billy's already neck deep in it. Probably more deep than any of them, considering where Steve suspects Billy's been these last few months.

"So," he clears his throat, meeting Billy's gaze, finding it unwavering, unyielding, and so blue. "So, you know about-- about, like, the monsters and shit, right?"

Billy shrugs in a way that Steve interprets as both a _yes_ and a _no_. “I know about the one that was in my head. I saw -- where he came from, and it was --” he shrugs again, “cold. I guess there’s more monsters?”

It’s not exactly the most _illuminating_ , but Steve doesn’t press. Either Billy doesn’t remember much, or he doesn’t want to talk about it.

"Right. Um. So, the… _thing_ that was in you-- that was the Mind Flayer. That's what the kids call it." Steve says, and wonders if he should just leave this to the kids to explain. "And the only reason it was here was because these crazy Russians opened up the Gate-- which, um, is like this doorway, right? Between our world and… _that_ world.

"It was open before, but El closed it, last November. The only reason the Mind Flayer came back was because they opened the Gate again with this, like, _crazy_ machine." Steve wets his lips and swallows. "Hop-- Chief Hopper died helping close it."

“Oh,” Billy says. He takes in a breath and Steve watches the way it raises his shoulders and makes him sit up a little bit straighter.

After breakfast, Steve had pushed Billy toward his shower. He gave Billy new clothes -- sweatpants again, because Billy requested something warm, and a long sleeve shirt and then a sweater. It’s weird, seeing him wearing so _much_ now, when the only times Steve’s ever really seen Billy in the past, he’d been wearing basically as little as possible.

When Billy had gotten out of the shower, Steve had offered to fix up his bandages again, but Billy had been adamant that he do it himself. Steve didn’t press, and now Billy’s got socks on over the gauze on his feet, maybe just so Max won’t have any more questions to ask.

It’s still one of _Steve’s_ lingering questions, though: Why was Billy running through the woods at breakneck speed in the middle of a storm? Where had he come from? How had he kept going, when his feet must have hurt so _badly_?

“That sucks,” Billy says. “So it’s closed, now?”

"Yeah, it's closed, now." Steve says, and bites back the _but it's been closed before_ that he wants to blurt out. "US calvary came in and shut them down."

“Good,” is all Billy says, though it doesn’t particularly _sound_ good.

Then again, when Steve looks at Billy, he doesn’t really _look_ good, either. He looks _tired_ , eyelids drooping, face a little pale. And then -- he yawns.

"You should rest some more," Steve says, pushing to his feet. "You've got a good twenty minutes before they get here, at the very least."

Billy looks, for a second, like he’s about to say something smart. Then, he just nods and slumps back on the couch, eyes falling closed. Out like a light.

Steve knows that he and Billy have never been _close_. Never even really been acquaintances, let alone friends. Definitely something close to enemies, for a while. But seeing him, here, willingly vulnerable on his couch, makes something in him twist and ache.

There's a part of Steve that is totally and completely _terrified._ Because Billy has always seemed larger than life, brighter than this small town could contain, and so _strong._ He still remembers how bad his head was ringing after their fight last year. He remembers seeing Billy face the Mind Flayer's meat puppet head-on and _hold it off_.

But he doesn't look strong, now. He looks small and tired and maybe even a little hunted. _Haunted._

Steve wants to know, he does, but he's also dreading finding out _exactly_ where Billy has been all this time. How he survived. Why they were made to think they buried his body.

And Steve knows-- he _knows--_ just like he's known each time, with a prickle of awareness along his scalp and a shortness to his breath, that this is just the beginning of something far _bigger_.

He _really_ wishes Hopper and Joyce were around.

***

Billy's still asleep when the doorbell rings. It startles him awake with wide eyes, with quick breath, and Steve can't help but reach out, press a hand to his shoulder, and offer a tight smile.

"It's just the kids," he says. "Let me talk to them, first, and then I'll send Max in to you."

Billy nods. He doesn’t move until Steve takes his hand away. Only then does he reach up to scrub at his face with a tired groan.

The doorbell rings again.

“Go,” Billy says. “I’m good.”

"Okay," Steve says, and steps back.

He pads over to the foyer, mouth pressing thin as someone starts doing double-time on his doorbell.

Ripping the door open, a curse on the tip of his tongue, Steve yelps and jerks back as Lucas Sinclair shoves what can only be a goddamn _cattle prod_ toward him while Dustin brandishes a can of Farrah Fawcett Spray aimed, more or less, at Steve.

"What the _fuck_ you guys?"

“They thought you might be _compromised_ ,” Max says, from where she’s standing behind the first line of defense with her arms crossed, looking totally unimpressed. She’s channeling Billy’s cool aloofness -- or the way he used to be, anyway.

“Listen,” Mike says, from next to Max. He’s not unarmed, but he’s holding his metal frying pan with very little enthusiasm. “We don’t have all day. You said it was a code red, but this doesn’t look very _code red_ to me.”

Steve _bristles._

He's not exactly sure _why_ but he feels _offended._ Like they haven't been through hell together at least _twice_ , now.

Hands on his hips, Steve towers above them. "Alright, _back_ the fuck up, and--" he reaches out, snatching the cattle prod out of Lucas' hand, savoring the way his eyes go comically wide for at least a second, "-- give me that before you hurt somebody."

" _Steve--"_ Dustin says, the hand holding the hairspray up dropping.

"No," he says, trying to channel his inner Hopper. "Back up. _Now."_

Together, like a freaky nerd hivemind, they all take a step back.

Steve props the deadly weapon against the umbrella holder by the door. Then, he steps out, bringing the door closed behind him until it's only open a crack. Then, he decides better of it and just clicks the damn thing shut behind him.

"Steve, what's going on?" Dustin asks, exchanging a wary look with Lucas.

"What's usually going on? Something batshit crazy."

“Why’d you want _me_?” Max says.

As usual, she’s more to-the-point and with-it than the rest of the crew.

“What’s inside your house?” Dustin asks, trying to peer around Steve to eye the closed door.

"That's the batshit crazy thing," Steve sighs, resting back against his door, scrubbing over his face and then pinching at the bridge of his nose. "Max, did you ever--. After the mall, did you or your mom or your step-dad ever… did any of you ever identify a body or-- or _see_ a body?"

"A _body_?" Mike practically squeaks.

"Billy," Steve clarifies, and looks at Max; looks at her wide eyes and doesn't look away. "Max. Did you ever see Billy's body after the mall?"

"Dude, this is so messed up," Lucas says.

Mike is shaking his head. "Do you have a _body_ in there?"

“I didn’t,” Max says. “But -- I mean, my dad identified the body. The coroners said it was too -- well. Anyway, it was a closed casket thing.”

"Yeah, no, I remember." Steve says, watching as she curls in on herself a bit. "But _you_ never saw it, after. Right?"

Max shakes her head. Just the barest hint of movement. “No. I saw it though. _Right_ after. When he -- when he wouldn’t wake up. When he wasn’t breathing. Steve --” She looks up at him, eyes so big and round.

"Are you hiding a body in your house, Steve?" Mike asks again, voice raising. "Did you find a body and _bring it_ to your _house?"_

"What is even _happening_ , right now?" Dustin asks, glancing between Steve and Max. "Steve--"

"Guys, I'm telling you, Steve has a body in his fucking _house--"_

"Would you shut up about a body in his house, already?" Lucas shoves at him.

Dustin nods. "Yeah, you're freaking me out. Steve wouldn't keep a body in his house, right, Steve--?"

"Stop obsessing about the body!" Steve snaps.

Mike throws his hands out. "So, there _is_ a body--!"

Behind Steve, the door clicks. The sound of the knob turning. It creaks as it opens, slow but steady. The kids shut up near-instantly, eyes going wide when they notice the movement.

“Will you losers stop _yelling_ ,” Billy says, before he’s even visible. Steve turns to look at him, as the door opens up wide enough to allow Billy to lean against the doorway, fully visible to the kids. “I _already_ have a headache from having to spend so much time with Harrington, here.”

"Holy _shit_ ," one of the kids breathes; Steve thinks it's Mike.

He can't help but agree. In the harsh light of day, Billy doesn't look much better than a corpse. Pale and wan. Dead tired on his feet.

Steve has to bite back the urge to step close and take Billy's arm over his shoulders and drag him back to the couch.

"Steve's been Flayed," Lucas says, and then he's scrambling at his backpack.

Steve twists back around and slaps the Farrah Fawcett Spray out of Dustin's hand before he can even raise it all the way. " _Stop._ "

They all freeze, eyes still wide, except for Max.

Max, who looks seconds away from crying on Steve's doorstep. Max, whose lower lip is trembling, chin wobbling, her eyes blinking rapidly.

"Billy?" she asks on a breath, shuffling forward a step.

“Hey, Mad Max,” Billy says.

He doesn't move, but Steve can see the way he's leaning on the doorframe, like it's the only thing holding him up right now.

Then, Billy makes a face. “Hey, is that my _pendant?”_

Max is frozen for maybe half a second more, and then she's barreling past Steve to get to Billy. Hitting him hard enough that he nearly loses his balance, rocking back as Max wraps her arms tight around him and sobs against his chest.

“Hey,” Billy says, frozen for a second before he wraps his arms around her, too. It looks like a loose hug, but Steve watches the way his fingers dig into her coat, holding tight.

Next to Max, Billy looks _bad_. He's too small and too pale and too weak. But that hasn't really seemed to stop him from doing anything -- even if all he really seems to want to do is nap.

“I'm sorry,” Billy says, which isn't exactly something Steve has heard out of the guy’s mouth before, but it sounds real, sounds _pained_.

Next to him, Dustin is keeping up a steady metronome of “ _holy shit, holy shit, holy shit.”_

When Steve looks at the boys, he finds them wide eyed and stone still. He gestures toward the door with a swing of his head.

"C'mon. Everyone inside." Steve says.

He moves first, to help Billy shuffle back with Max still clinging on. Then, he ushers the boys in after them, coaxing them toward the living room as he shuts and locks the door.

Billy is leaning back against the wall just inside the foyer, eyes a little wide as he stares down at the top of Max's head. When he finally looks up, Steve raises his brows, a silent: _do you want me to stay?_

Billy shakes his head. Steve lingers for just a moment, long enough to watch Billy pull back just enough to let himself slump to the floor. Max follows, curling up next to him in a hug, shoulders shaking as she cries. Billy's face -- well. Steve doesn't spend too long looking at those blue, watery eyes. After a second, he just nods and follows the kids into the living room, giving Billy and Max some space.

When he walks into the living room, it's to the heated weight of three teenage boys glowering at him. Steve tries not to feel intimidated.

He crosses his arms over his chest, brow raising, and shrugs. "What?" he asks.

"You're not even gonna offer an _explanation?"_ Mike asks. "How long has he _been_ here?"

"Not even a day," Steve says. "I found him last night wearing _these_."

He moves over to where he threw Billy's soaked and torn pants the night before. Tosses them at Mike and watches as he and Dustin unfold and examine them.

"Do these look like--?"

"Like El's? Yeah."

“Anything else?” Dustin asks. “Like, literally _anything_ else? We can't extrapolate with just one data point here, Steve.”

Steve shakes his head. "I found him, last night, in the mall parking lot. He ran there-- from wherever he was, he ran there. His feet were all messed up. He didn't-- well, at first, he didn't know who he was and he-- he thought it was _August_."

“August,” Lucas says with a whistle.

“Uh, is anyone at all _concerned_ here?” Mike asks. “He was _the_ puppet for the Mind Flayer. We should be cautious.”

"I tried radioing last night," Steve says. "Couldn't get through. And he hasn't-- he hasn't _done_ anything, like, _evil."_

"Will said it liked to hide," Lucas says. "Maybe it's just lulling you into a false sense of security."

Steve shakes his head. "No. He's been _cold._ Not hot. He's been buried under at _least_ five blankets since I brought him here, complaining about how cold it is."

“He looks weak,” Lucas says slowly. “He could barely stand. When he was Flayed, he was super strong.”

”Are you _positive_ he wants to stay warm? Did he take a shower? Was it hot?” Mike asks.

"There was so much steam, the light fixture was dripping." Steve says, tone dry, leaving no room for argument. "I didn't _code red_ just because Billy's suddenly _not dead._ I did it because _someone_ was keeping him _somewhere_ and I've got a shitty feeling about it."

"Oh, you've got a _shitty feeling_ about it?" Mike asks, dubious, but Dustin smacks him in the chest.

"Shut up. Steve's instincts are good," he says. "And he's _right_."

“And also a dead guy who was a _monster_ is suddenly alive. That feels pretty legitimate for _code red_ to me,” Lucas says.

“I want it on the record that I think he's evil and that this is a bad idea,” Mike says.

"Noted," Dustin says with a dismissive wave of his hand. "So, what are we thinking? What are we doing?"

All three of them stare at Steve. And Steve-- Steve does not know what to do with that. Not at all.

He breathes out slow, closing his eyes, and tries not to feel the fatigue of it all weigh him down.

"Um. Joyce. Will's mom. We should call her, see if she can bring El down to-- to do that thing." Steve says, holding his hands out. "Check and see if she can find out where Billy's been or if there's anything… left. Of the Mind Flayer."

“Jesus, I thought I told you to stop using phones?” Billy’s voice comes from right behind Steve.

When he turns around, Billy is standing there, Max’s arm around him. Supporting him a bit. Both of their eyes are red and their faces have a haunted sort of look -- but at the same time, they look so _relieved_.

"Call, radio, whatever. The kids know what I mean." Steve says.

“Just making sure you’re not being an idiot,” Billy says, but he slumps a little as he does it, like all his energy left him at once. Steve can’t really blame him: crying is exhausting -- and so is everything else Billy has been through.

“Hey losers, move off the couch so he can lie down,” Max says, ushering the boys off the couch.

They move with little complaint, which must be a testament to how _weird_ this all is, how sideways their world has gone right now. Steve watches as Billy sprawls out on the cushions with Max’s help, looking too small in clothes that aren’t even his.

They hover, all eyeing the man that was a monster not so long ago. Even as Billy tugs one of the blankets up over himself with a little shudder, looking not so intimidating at all.

Steve snaps his fingers in Dustin's face.

"Hey. Can you get ahold of El or Will?"

Dustin blinks. "We'll have to use Cerebro if we're radioing them."

“Let’s go,” Max says, with one more look at Billy. She’s still standing at his side, but she doesn’t touch him. Hell, he might already be _asleep_. “We can come back after, right, Steve?”

"Yeah, of course," Steve nods. "You guys need a lift?"

Max shakes her head. "Someone needs to stay with him. I trust _you_."

"Oh," Steve blinks and watches her pull a necklace over her head and turn Billy's lax hand over to drop it into his palm. "Okay."

“Try not to get Flayed while we’re gone,” Dustin says.

“Or punched,” Lucas adds.

And, with that, the kids leave, taking the same whirlwind of energy with them that they came with, leaving Steve alone with Billy and the quiet of his house once more.

***

Steve hadn't meant to fall asleep.

It was just that everything was _so much_. He hadn't slept well at all the night before, and then he was up until nearly dawn last night, trying to radio after he'd tucked Billy in. By the time he’d finally showered after Billy this morning, his thighs had chafed in his wet jeans and he'd smelled gross and musty from sitting in dirty clothes for too long.

So, after all the commtotion had stopped, Steve had nodded off in the chair next to the couch, overlooking Billy again, the stupid cattle prod Lucas brought resting against his knee _just in case_.

He wakes to a pounding at his front door and Billy goddamn Hargrove hovering over him, pressing him down into his seat when he flails, a hand over his mouth, like Steve might scream or something. Which he nearly does, waking up like that.

"There's someone at the door," Billy says, voice low.

"Yeah," Steve hisses back after wrenching Billy's hand away from his mouth. "No _shit_."

Billy frowns down at him. "It's not the kids."

"How do you--?" Steve shakes his head. "Nevermind. I'll go check, you wait here."

He shoves at Billy's hands and then pushes up onto his feet.

As Steve gets closer to the door, relief floods him: along with the knocking, and the way someone’s now _leaning_ on the bell, Robin’s familiar voice is coming through the wood and the cracks around it.

“Open _up_ , dingus! I know you’re here, your car’s here!”

Steve looks over his shoulder to tell Billy that it’s just Robin, that it’s _fine_ \-- but Billy’s nowhere to be seen. When he looks _back_ at the door, though -- Billy’s there, hand flat on it. Holding it closed.

“Don’t open it.”

"It's just my friend Robin," Steve insists, blinking at Billy, not quite sure how he managed to get _around him_ without Steve noticing _._ "She's cool. I promise. She helped with the evil Russians."

Billy just glares at him, gaze hard and resolute.

“I thought all your friends were _kids_ ,” Billy says, turning to look skeptically at the door.

Steve tries not to be too totally offended by that. "Yeah, well, I'm full of surprises."

When he tries to open the door, turning the handle and pulling, it doesn’t _budge_. It’s a little surprising, given how weak Billy looks, just how much the door won’t move, even with Steve turning to give his effort a little more _oomf_.

“I don’t trust anyone,” Billy says.

But that’s not entirely true, Steve thinks. Because he trusts the kids -- or Max, and by association the others. And he trusts Steve, apparently.

Steve nods anyway. He clears his throat, keeping his grip on the door handle as Robin rings the doorbell again.

"I get that," Steve says. "But I trust her. And I won't-- I wouldn't do anything to put you or the kids at risk. And if I don't open the door--"

"Open up, Harrington, or I'm gonna call the cops and tell 'em you OD'd!" Robin hollers through the wood, and Steve gestures a little helplessly at it.

"That'll happen."

“What, she’s actually gonna call the _cops_ on you?” Billy hisses, maybe a hair too loud. “Jesus, your girlfriend is overprotective.”

“ _Steve_ ,” Robin shouts through the door, “hold on, do you have someone in there _with_ you?! Did you skip work just to --”

Billy lets go of the door. Steve’s still pulling on it, so it slams open, nearly knocking Steve on his ass. Luckily, Billy positioned himself behind the door, so he’s hidden, at least for a _moment_.

Robin is still wearing her vest from the video store, hair piled on top of her head, eyes wide and blinking as Steve rights himself and offers a lopsided grin.

"Uh, hey, Robin. I can explain."

"You _better,"_ she says, poking at his chest, making him rock back a bit. "Where the fuck were you? You _know_ Keith wants any excuse to fire you. Are you playing hooky because your shitty game finally scored you a girl--?"

" _Robin,"_ Steve says, holding his hands out. "Listen, I'm not skipping out for fun, trust me."

“Uh huh, then why did it sound like you were _talking_ to someone, dingus?”

She pokes him. Again.

"Uh," Steve blinks, and glances helplessly at Billy where he's hovering behind the cover of the door.

Robin's eyes light up. "Oh, my god, you _are_ hiding someone? Who is it? Jamie? That blonde from last week?"

Steve snorts. "We really gotta work on your taste in chicks."

"You dated Nancy fucking _Wheeler_ , you've no room to _talk_." Robin smacks at him. "Stop trying to distract me."

"Sorry--"

“Jesus, just let her in,” Billy says from behind the door. Then, Steve hears him mumble, “Donno why I was even worried,” under his breath.

Robin’s brow furrows. Raspy and tired, Billy definitely sounds nothing like Jamie Gelber, who has, over the course of two months, rented every single romantic comedy the store has to offer.

She stares at Steve, squinting at him as he steps aside to let her by, but doesn't move.

"Steve Harrington, are you hiding a _man_ in your house?"

Steve curses, reaches out, and tugs her swiftly inside. He shuts the door behind her with a clatter and shuffles back until she can see Billy where he's standing.

Her lips purse up as she looks at him.

"He doesn't seem like your _type_ ," she says.

" _What?"_ Steve nearly chokes on his own tongue. "No, he's not-- jesus, Robin, we're not-- that's _Billy Hargrove."_

Robin takes one step back.

“ _The_ Billy Hargrove? Like, the _dead_ Billy Hargrove?”

Billy huffs. “I’m clearly not dead.”

" _Clearly,"_ Robin sneers, then twists to face Steve. " _What_ is going on?"

Steve waves a hand in Billy's general direction. "He's the resurrection of Christ on earth. We're starting a new religion--"

Robin smacks at him.

"Ow, _hey_!"

"Don't be an asshole."

"It's my best quality," Steve says, batting her hands away as she goes to smack him again. " _Hey."_

"I thought your _hair_ was your best quality," Robin says, sneaking by his hands to pinch at his side. "Now _tell me_ what's happening or I'm just going to assume you're a necrophiliac--"

" _Robin!"_

“We don’t know what’s happening,” Billy says, as he starts walking back into the living room, presumably in search of somewhere to sit. “I’m alive, and I lost, like, four months. Steve found me.”

“Okay, so you’re, like, adding a dead guy to your little babysitting rotation?” Robin asks, following Steve warily to where Billy was heading.

“Not dead,” Billy mumbles.

"Right," Robin huffs, plopping down onto one of the chairs. "Is this an evil Russian thing?"

Steve sighs. "Maybe? I really-- _god,_ I really hope not?"

He looks at Billy for confirmation, but Billy doesn’t do anything more helpful than shrug.

“Donno. Don’t remember anything helpful. Definitely don’t remember any people.”

“Shit,” Robin says. She leans back in the chair, eyes still fixed on Billy. “Sorry, man, but it would definitely have been much more simple for everyone involved, but specifically me, if Steve had just skipped work to get laid.”

Billy turns to Steve, eyebrows up. “Why, you do that often, King Steve?” He grins, and it’s a hazy after-image of the way he used to tease, all sharp and churlish.

Steve feels his face burn a little as he mutters a soft but vehement _no_ and when Billy's grin goes a little wider, Steve thinks maybe that was the _wrong_ answer.

Robin clears her throat and Steve looks her way. "You think it was the Russians?"

Steve shudders. Tries not to think about being beaten, drugged, and very nearly tortured. Unless the beating counted as torture.

He's a little hazy on the definition.

"No," he says, a little firm, blatantly _not_ thinking about a creepy, old general pushing his hair back and tipping his face up to look at his soldier's handy work. "If it was them, why would they keep Billy _here_ , stateside, when they could've dragged him back to the mother country?"

“Their lab was stateside. Maybe they just set up a new camp. _Maybe_ they couldn’t get out of the country, because Big Brother was looking too closely for them?”

Steve tries to think about it as silence falls over them for a moment, but he’s interrupted, almost immediately, by Billy asking, “Hey, do you think we could order pizza? I’m starving.”

Steve blinks over at him and then nods. "Uh, yeah. Yeah, sure. Meat lovers?"

Robin gags at the same time as Billy says, “Sure.”

Steve snorts. "And a veggie pie for you?"

Robin tosses him a thin, unamused smile. "You know me so well."

"Well, _yeah."_ Steve waggles his brows at her and her smile cracks into something genuine. "Think we'll need more than that?"

Billy just raises his eyebrows.

“Donno, Steve, he looks kinda _hungry_ ,” Robin says. By her tone, Steve gets the feeling she’s _not_ talking about how skinny Billy looks in Steve’s clothes.

Still, Steve rolls his eyes. "I'll double the order. Anything else?"

“I’m good,” Billy says. He stretches out on the couch and turns his gaze on Robin. “So, you work with Steve?”

Steve leaves them as Robin leans forward to tell Billy: "If you call what he does _work_."

He smiles to himself as he pads over to the phone, shaking his head, wondering when his life got so fucking _crazy_.


	4. III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arm wrestling in the kitchen, between slices of pizza -- just like the cool kids do.

Billy takes another short nap while they wait for the pizza to get there. He makes Steve promise to meet the guy out on the curb, instead of letting anyone come up to the door. And, to Steve’s credit, he must do that, because when Billy wakes up, it’s to the smell of pizza and the sound of Steve and Robin talking in low voices in the kitchen.

He yawns and stretches, his whole body still aching like he’s got the flu. A deep muscle sort of thing, right down to the bone.

“I’m assuming the kids know he’s here,” Robin’s saying. Steve makes an affirmative sort of noise. “Holy shit.” He imagines her shaking her head and tearing into a piece of pizza with her teeth. He’s right, because her next words are mumbled, full of food: “Steve, he looks _really_ bad. I mean, wasn’t he, like, _the_ hottest guy at the pool? People would _not_ stop talking about him when summer started.”

Billy doesn’t get up, but he does smile a little, a pleasant feeling of pride going to his chest. He always did like to hear people talk about him, and he guesses that hasn’t changed much.

"Yeah, well, he's been dead for four months." Steve says, and Billy hears the _crack_ of a can being opened-- beer or pop, he's not sure-- and a soft sigh as Steve's voice lowers. "He remembers a lab. Which means someone took him. Russians, maybe. But you're forgetting that it wasn't _Russians_ that originally opened the Gate."

"Right," Robin says. "That was us, right? Our government, in that old lab that closed down?"

"Right."

There's a long pause. He hears the fridge open and shut. Hears another _crack_ and _fizz_ and then two cans tapping together.

"You _really_ don't want it to be Russians, do you?" Robin asks.

Steve sighs again. "Can you blame me? I mean, both possibilities are _shitty_ , but I'm pretty sure I would remember if the United States' government tied me up and beat me blind."

Billy frowns. Suddenly, it feels like he _really_ shouldn’t be listening in on this conversation, but he can’t help it. They’re talking loudly and he’s awake, now.

“Right,” Robin says. “They did have the good drugs, though. Then again, the US Government probably does, too.”

"That was kinda fun until the vomiting," Steve says, so soft, that Billy can imagine his smile-- a little crooked and a lot sweet.

With that thought, Billy pushes himself off the couch and shuffles his way into the kitchen, groaning through a loud yawn just so that they know he’s coming.

“Pizza here already?” he asks, even though he knows it is, even though he knows they’re both already through at least a slice.

"Yep," Steve says and nudges an unopened box toward Billy with the end of a beer can. "Eat up."

Sitting on the counter at Steve's left, Robin eyes him over the edge of her drink. Narrowed and thoughtful.

Billy plops himself down at the kitchen table with the pizza box and digs in. He’s two slices in, Steve and Robin just staring at him, when he gestures at Steve’s beer. “You gonna share, or is the party just for you two?”

Steve moves toward the fridge when Robin catches him by the back of his shirt. She gives Billy one of those tight smiles, again.

"We're a private club. Gotta earn your way in."

Billy grits his teeth, eyes narrowing on the way Robin so easily moves into Steve’s space. He doesn’t _like_ it, straight up. He doesn’t feel like lingering on _why_.

“I was dead, _sweetheart_ , I think I’ve earned a beer.”

Steve looks at Robin, brows up, like he's saying: _he's kinda got a point_. Billy hates that Robin reads it so easily, too, because she rolls her eyes and lets Steve go.

Like she's _humoring_ him.

"Preferences?" Steve asks, pulling the fridge open, letting Billy see the options in the door.

“Alcohol,” Billy says. “None of that light shit.”

“You sure you can handle it, big guy? You’re looking a little fragile,” Robin says.

Billy gets the impression she’s not the kind to pull any punches; he’s not sure whether he likes her, or hates her.

He ignores her. “Beer me, Harrington.”

Steve shrugs, face following the line of his shoulders, and he snatches out a can from the top shelf-- like he might organize it from good to bad, top to bottom-- and tosses one Billy's way. Billy catches it with surprising ease, a surprise even to himself, and cracks it open.

“I’m pretty sure you’re gonna be a lightweight,” Robin says. “Take it easy?”

Just to spite her, Billy downs half the thing in one go.

Steve watches, brows up, and he pulls a second beer out for himself. "I think he took that as a challenge."

"Boys are stupid," Robin mumbles into her can.

Billy can’t help but agree.

Instead of arguing, though, he digs into another piece of pizza. Then, another. He used to leave the crusts behind, but he powers through them, now: ravenous.

“Kids should be back soon, maybe,” Billy says. “So, what, is she part of your little gang, now, too?” He gestures at Robin with his can.

“ _She_ is right here, asshole,” Robin says.

"Yes," Steve says, quick, like he's trying to break up a fight before it even starts. "She cracked the Russian code. Saved my ring finger, too."

Billy rolls his eyes. “Gotta make sure _that_ one is safe for the future Mrs. Harrington, huh?”

As an institution, Billy thinks marriage is kinda bogus, that’s all.

Or maybe, _maybe_ he’s also always kind of resented the idea of a future Mrs. Harrington. Or he did, back in the day. Back when he was new to town and Steve and he were just rivals. Back when he could look all he wanted and, because of his image, _no one_ was any the wiser.

Now -- well, now a lot of shit has changed. Now, he feels like everything he does is going to be put under a microscope. He also gets the feeling that he’s going to be seeing a _lot_ more of Steve “Pretty Boy” Harrington.

"I mean, mostly I was just happy to keep it." Steve says with a little wiggle of the fingers on his left hand. "That woulda been hell to explain."

“Let me guess,” Billy says. “The Russians?”

Steve hums and then tucks his hand away as he swallows down a good half of his beer. Robin swings a leg out to kick him lightly in the thigh and Steve smiles at her.

Billy -- well, he can’t help but glare as he crams the last of his slice in his mouth.

"So," Steve clears his throat. "Kids will be back soon. Hopefully with good news, and then hopefully El can work her freaky Vulcan mind meld thing and figure out who we need to be looking out for. Until then, I guess this is homebase."

“Holy shit, you’re such a nerd,” Billy says.

“Pretty sure you’re a nerd for recognizing that,” Robin points out.

Steve huffs, crossing his arms and leaning on the counter across from Robin. "Blame Dustin. He's brainwashing me."

Billy _almost_ tells Steve that he should spend more time with people his own age, but it appears that would mean _Robin_ , which Steve is already doing, and Billy doesn’t really like that -- even though he knows he doesn’t get to have an opinion. Anyway, he doesn’t want to encourage that, so he just digs into another slice.

“Were they starving you?” Robin asks, apparently undeterred about all of Billy’s glaring.

Steve jerks a little, eyes wide on Robin's face. " _Dude_. Tact."

Robin looks at him, shrugging. "What?"

"Could you, like, _not_ be a dick for five minutes?" Steve asks, and Billy doesn't think Steve ever talked to _Nancy Wheeler_ like that.

“You’re asking me to not be a dick to _Billy Hargrove_?”

“I was _possessed_ ,” Billy says.

“Yeah, but didn’t you beat Steve’s face in last year?” she asks, eyebrows raised expectantly.

Even Steve looks a little taken aback by that, lashes fluttering wildly. "Is _that_ why you're all--"

He gestures vaguely at _all_ of her.

When all Robin does is lean forward and lift a brow, Steve drops his hand and coughs. A grin, wicked with delight, spreads over her face as Steve's colors.

"Oh, no, please. Finish that statement."

Steve chews on the inside of his cheek. "Bitchy?"

"Your ass is _grass,_ Harrington."

"Sorry," Steve mutters, shrinking a little into himself, and Billy would think it was _funny_ , this tiny girl making Steve Harrington _cower_ , but he really _doesn't._

Robin turns her focus back to him. "Well?"

Billy just shrugs. “Don’t see why it’s any of your business.” If she’s being bitchy, Billy can be bitchy right back.

"It's my _business_ because this pretty face, right here?" Robin slides off the counter in order to take Steve's jaw in hand, fingers pushing at his cheeks, until Steve's mouth is comically pouty even as he tries to bat her away. "Got all bashed in by _your_ fists. And this face is _important_."

Steve shoves her away, rubbing at his left cheek, flush to his _ears._ "Would you stop? It's not a big deal. I forgave him."

That’s news to Billy’s ears.

Then again, that’s also the least of his concerns right now.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’m not gonna break your boyfriend,” he says, tearing into another piece of pizza with something like a snarl.

Robin's face scrunches up. " _Not_ my boyfriend," she says. "But _thanks._ That's _real_ reassuring."

That’s _real reassuring_ , too. Sure, they may not be dating ( _yet_ ), but they’re all kinds of close. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to notice that.

“Besides,” Billy says. “Do I look like I could beat anybody up right now? Even Steve, here?”

"Point," Robin says, then turns to Steve. "Your bathroom still where I left it last?"

"Hasn't moved," Steve says, but he's looking at Billy with something odd in his gaze.

Something a little bright. A little curious.

"Cool," Robin says, glancing between them, and then she's out of the kitchen, leaving Steve and Billy in her wake.

Steve keeps looking at him. Studying him, like a puzzle.

Then, he moves. He pulls open the fridge, grabs another beer, and throws it at Billy without warning.

Billy catches it, feeling thankful. Feeling the same little rush he’s always gotten whenever Steve Harrington looked at him, back in school.

“She’s kind of a bitch,” Billy says. “But at least you aren’t hanging out with only kids anymore.”

Honestly, Billy doesn’t hate her. Well -- he _kind of_ does, but not her personality. That’s actually great. Any other circumstances, they could probably be friends. Right now, though? Well, there’s a lot in Billy’s life that isn’t ideal.

Steve grunts, like an acknowledgement, but his focus seems to be elsewhere.

He pads over and pulls the chair nearest Billy out and then plops down into it. He pushes the pizza box away and props his elbow on the table, hand up. Expectant.

As if Billy knows a _single_ thing going through his head, right now.

“Can I _help_ you?” Billy asks.

"Gimme your hand."

_What the fuck_ , Billy thinks.

But he gives Steve his hand anyway. Rests his elbow on the table, like Steve, and frowns as Steve adjusts their grip.

And then Steve is pressing, pushing, bringing his hand back down toward the table. Billy's fingers twitch, and then he's pressing _back._

It's laughable, how easily he shoves Steve's hand back. Twisting so fast that Steve winces and hisses at the torque.

Billy jerks back, chair screeching, as Steve sits there and shakes out his hand.

"Ow," he mutters.

“You weren't even trying,” Billy says, though it doesn't feel like truth.

"Wanna bet?" Steve asks, looking over at him, that same _curious_ look on his face.

“I promised your girlfriend I wouldn't break you,” Billy says, unwilling to try again.

Steve shrugs. "Then just don't let me win. Doesn't mean I have to _lose,_ either."

He props his hand back up, wiggling his fingers. Like a dare.

"C'mon. I can take it."

It's awful, lacing his fingers into Steve’s. His hand is warm and it feels safe. Like a comfort.

Billy waits maybe a hair too long before he starts pressing forward. He feels Steve start to press back. Billy lingers with it though -- it feels like Steve isn't even _trying._

“Try _harder_ , Harrington.”

But Steve's neck is flush. He grimaces as he shifts in his seat, pressing, pressing, _pressing_.

Billy can see his arm trembling.

"I try any harder and I'm gonna have to cheat," Steve tells him.

“You can't cheat at arm wrestling, unless you're gonna kick me in the shins,” Billy says.

“He could also kiss you,” Robin says from the doorway of the kitchen.

Steve's focus breaks, and even the little bit of give is enough to let the minute pressure Billy's applying to push Steve's hand down. Billy feels his arm lock up before Steve's knuckles can hit the table, and Steve blinks at their hands.

"Huh," he says, wetting his lips, fingers flexing over Billy's.

Nice as it is, Billy can't really focus on it-- not with Robin's words ringing between his ears.

His fingers twitch in Steve's.

“Shit,” he says.

Robin squints at them. "Is this some kind of guy thing that I don't want to get?"

"Just testing a theory," Steve says, and then carefully extracts his hand from Billy's. "Nothing to worry about."

Robin hums, a little dubious, but when Steve flashes her a smile, she lets it drop.

Billy realizes, a bit distantly, that Steve is _lying._ Because, honestly, this _is_ something they should worry about. But Steve is lying and he's lying for _Billy._

As Billy flexes his fingers, trying to get the feeling of Steve’s hand to stop lingering, he tries also to stop picturing the way Steve smiled at Robin. The way he’s _still_ smiling at Robin. Jesus, jealousy is an ugly fucking bitch.

“You never answered,” Robin says, eyes on Billy. “Did they feed you?

He _should_ be mad, but instead he grasps onto it as a perfect distraction.

“Not sure. Maybe not? I don’t actually remember -- much. Just flashes. No food, though.”

Steve frowns and tilts his head. "Wouldn't eating so much make you sick if they starved you, though?"

Billy shrugs. “Maybe? Maybe they just didn’t let me eat _enough_? Do you know how much I had to eat to keep up with the amount of working out I did?”

"No, actually." Steve says, and his eyes stray to Billy's shoulders and chest, as if looking for evidence of it or maybe remembering just how broad he'd been. "A lot?"

“So fucking much,” he says.

He remembers always being hungry then, too. Eating so much meat, beans -- any protein he could get his hands on. Now, though -- that hunger pales in comparison. Now, he doesn’t even find himself craving protein -- just _calories_.

Steve tugs the pizza box back over, finds it half devoured, and hums again-- a little pinch between his brows. _Thoughtful._ Like he's piecing things together. Puzzling something out.

Billy never really took Steve to be a big _thinker_.

Robin seems to notice it, too. She crosses her arms, watching Steve, and clears her throat to catch his attention.

"What?" he asks.

"You've got that _Indiana Flyer_ look on your face, again," Robin says; it doesn't make any sense to Billy, but it must to Steve because he colors and then shrugs.

"I just, uh… think maybe his body is compensating," Steve says, catching Billy's gaze for a second, like he's trying to say something else without using words to do it. "Making up for what it lacked. He's visibly tired and thinner. And he's eating and sleeping a lot."

Billy doesn’t know what Steve’s trying to say without saying it, but what he’s saying does make sense. He nods. “Though, I think I must’ve been sleeping. I don’t remember -- much.”

“Even if you were knocked out,” Robin says, “that’s not exactly sleeping. It’s not restful. When I had my tonsils out in sixth grade, they knocked me out. When I woke up, it was like I hadn’t slept at all.”

"That's true," Steve nods. "So, we just gotta let you sleep and make sure to feed and water you."

Robin snorts. A little grin curves over Steve's mouth.

"Maybe get you a little sunlight, too,” he adds.

Billy shoves at him and grabs at another piece of pizza, uncaring that it’s starting to get a little less warm. “I’m not a _plant_ ,” he says. “I’m also not one of your little babysitting projects, either.”

"Vitamin D is good for you," Steve argues.

Robin, in the middle of swigging back her beer, snorts it up and starts sputtering.

Steve frowns. "You okay?"

" _Yeah_ ," Robin rasps, arm over her nose, laughter catching in her throat. "Yeah, no, um. Went down wrong. I'll be right back. Gonna go-- clean up."

Billy wills his cheeks not to flush. Robin, who seems smart as a fucking _whip_ , which he can tell even in the few minutes that Billy’s known her, got that shit. Steve -- well, Steve didn’t. The line’s familiar enough to Billy -- he’s used it enough in his life. On girls just as bitchy as Robin. On guys just as pretty as Steve.

He tries not to worry that Robin’s seen too much of him. That she’s just laughing at Steve’s bad choice in words. Billy couldn’t have been looking at Steve _that_ much, couldn’t have given anything about himself away in such a short time. Not that there’s _that_ much to give away, he tries to reassure himself.

So, Billy says nothing and eats his pizza in silence, finishing off the rest of the box before Robin comes strolling back in, looking a little bit more held together.

"So," she says. "When are those little twerps coming back?"

***

Stupidly, Billy feels safer with Max around. He’s not sure if he’s concerned about his own safety, or hers -- but having her close by feels right. Like, if something were to go down, at least they could be together this time, fighting on the same side. Instead of -- well. Instead of.

“You can keep it, you know.” Billy’s got his pendant in his fist and Max next to him on the couch.

Steve and Robin are still in the kitchen, and the boys have taken over Steve’s dining room with large papers full of _plans_ and research. Not that there’s much to research, Billy thinks.

“It’s yours,” Max says. “Wasn’t it your mom’s?”

It was.

“It means something to you, now, too,” Billy says.

The sun is setting in the distance. Through the sliding glass windows, there's light pouring in, red and gold. It catches in the wisps of Max's hair, the bits that have escaped her braid, like a halo.

Her eyes are so big and are trained on his face. He still remembers how _hard_ she held onto him.

"Yeah, but…" She sighs, shifting, wetting her lips. "But you're _back_ , now. So, I don't need it so much anymore."

“How about you keep it safe for me?” Billy says, letting the chain fall into her hand.

In the kitchen he hears Robin say: “I assume you’re going to keep him in your guest room?”

"Where else would I keep him?" Steve asks, sounding genuinely puzzled. "I only had him crash on the couch last night because I couldn't carry him up the stairs."

Robin sighs. "You're such a _dingus_ , dingus."

Max clutches the chain in her hand. Her eyes flit over Billy's face, and then she leans in, letting her head rest on his shoulder.

"I'm glad you're not dead."

It feels kind of strange to put his hand on the back of her head -- they were never _like_ that. Never affectionate, as siblings. But he does now, because he wants to give the comfort, and he wants some of his own, too.

“I’m glad I’m not dead, too.”

In the kitchen, the phone rings.

At the table, there's a mad dash of sneakers squeaking on tile and chairs scraping back. Mike is in the lead, at breakneck speed, and he's reaching for the phone when Steve sweeps in and picks it up before he can even _touch_ it.

"Hello, Harrington residence, may I ask who's calling?"

Idling up beside him, Robin fakes a gag, elbowing him. "Such a _prep_."

Billy agrees, but not out _loud_.

He’s already up from the couch and leaning in the doorway, with Max hovering next to him like something might happen if she strays too far.

“Put it on _speaker_ ,” Dustin hisses.

Steve does.

_“Hi, honey,_ ” Joyce says, voice a little staticky over the line.

Steve flushes a little, scratching at the back of his head. "Uh, hey, Mrs. Byers."

_"It's Joyce, sweetie, you know that."_

"Right, uh."

“ _We just wanted to let you know that we’re planning a trip down to Hawkins in the next day or so, for the weekend. Will you and the kids be around?”_

"No, yeah, no. That's-- that sounds great. I think, uh…" Steve looks at Dustin, making a wild gesture with his hands, and Dustin points at the floor pointedly. "Um, the kids will be at my place for a, um…"

Behind Dustin, Mike and Lucas are miming something, like they're in battle. Dustin pretends to roll dice in his hands and then lifts his hands in triumph.

Steve looks _lost._ His eyes wide and horrified on Dustin.

Next to Billy, Max rolls her eyes and storms over. She grasps the notepad and pen next to the phone, jots something down, and shoves it in Steve's face.

"Oh, a D&D marathon." Steve says, and uses the notepad to smack at Dustin, mouthing _what the fuck was that_ while mocking his 'dice roll' with a motion that looks a _lot_ more inappropriate. "So, just come to my place when you get into town. I'm sure they'll be happy to see Will."

“ _Will misses them, too_ ,” Joyce says. It sounds like a loaded thing, somehow. Billy wonders if she’s including El in that statement, too.

His heart pounds with the reality of seeing her again.

Suddenly, it’s a little too much. He turns and pushes his way out the doorway, following the lines of the house away from the sound of Steve on the phone, walking until he gets to a room that looks like a study. It’s quiet in here and it smells like books and stale cigar smoke. He sits down on a worn leather couch and just tries to breathe.

He presses his face between his knees, hands clenching and unclenching. He feels _dizzy_.

The door slides open. When he looks up, Max is hovering there, looking unsure.

"You okay?" she asks, voice soft.

For the first time in his life, Billy wants to say _no_. It’s all too much, he thinks. It just doesn’t _stop_ being too much.

But, in the face of everything, he knows this is nothing.

“She tried to kill me,” Billy says, no other explanation. Not even the obvious, _I tried to kill her, first_.

Max's mouth presses into a thin line.

Cautiously, she steps in and shuts the door behind her. Billy's pendant rests around her neck.

"Not _you,"_ she says. "We were never trying to kill _you."_

“Tell that to my brain,” he grumbles.

Billy knows it, he does. But there’s a part of him, deep down inside, that echoes in the same way that He had. It reverberates inside him like a low and hollow sounding gong.

El tried to kill _Him_. And somehow that feels exactly the same.

Max treads closer, hands rubbing against her jeans, like her palms are sweaty. "I know-- well, I don't _know_ , but… but you weren't _you,_ Billy. I know you weren't. You wouldn't have-- you wouldn't have done what you did if you were _you."_

Billy doesn't know if she means leading people to their death or if she means smacking her so hard across the face that she crumbled to the ground. His right hand flexes at his side; a flesh memory.

He remembers. He remembers so much of it, even though he’s been telling Steve he doesn’t. Some of it is far away, but if he squints, if he focuses, he can still see.

“I still did it. At the end, I -- tried so hard. Should’ve done that earlier.”

Before he lead dozens of people to their deaths.

"But you-- you still _did it_ , Billy." Max says. "You fought back. You-- you _saved_ El. You saved _us. All_ of us."

“Steve said that cop died. Hopper,” he adds, knowing that it’s important. “He died. Heather, from the pool -- she died. Jesus, she wasn’t actually that _bad_. We were going to watch _Fright Night_ together when it came out.”

Max's lips press thin, as she comes to a stop in front of him. "But you didn't _want to_ , right? You didn't want to?"

“What, watch _Fright Night_ with her?” He tries for a smile, when Max doesn’t laugh. “Of course I didn’t want to. I was so fucking _scared_. I tried to stop him, I fucking _tried,_ Max. I just -- tried harder, at the end. I should’ve tried harder all along.”

Max shuffles a little, and then that familiar stubborn look crosses and settles on her face. "I don't _care_."

Billy just nods, a sharp jerk of a motion. “Thanks,” he says, and means it. At least someone doesn’t care. He falls quiet for a moment, just thinking as Max hovers. Then, he pats the couch next to him. “You can sit, if you want. It’s only a matter of time before someone finds us. You stay in here too long and your little entourage will think I killed you. If I stay, Steve’ll probably worry I’ve died, or something. Pretty sure the only person who _won’t_ bother us is Steve’s girlfriend.”

Max's face screws up as she sits down next to him. " _Robin?"_

“Yeah, think that’s her name.” Like Billy didn’t already _know_.

Max laughs, shaking her head. "They are _so_ not dating."

Billy raises his eyebrows. “You sure about that?”

This is _way_ better to talk about than the time he was possessed by a monster and tried to destroy the world. It’s easier, too. And he kinda wants to know.

"Um, _positive."_ Max says, with such vehemence, Billy's almost inclined to believe her.

“They seem pretty close, regardless,” Billy says, shrugging.

Max gives him a _look._ Billy glances away; still, somehow, even _this_ is easier than talking about monsters and regrets.

"Jealous?" she asks, nudging into his side, almost _playful._

“I would’ve been, five months ago,” he says after a moment. There’s no real point in lying to her. Max knows exactly why they moved away from California. Why Neil moved them away. “Now?” He shrugs. “There’s probably more important things to worry about.”

Max frowns. "What, you think because you've been _dead_ for four months you can't _like_ somebody?"

Billy groans. “I don’t _like_ him.” Max makes a _really_ dubious, _really_ rude noise. “I don’t. Hell, I don’t even fucking know him, Max.”

They were just on the same basketball team. In the same gym class. They went to the same parties, and hung out with, largey, the same people, just usually at different times. But, overall -- he never _really_ knew Steve. Not enough to have anything other than a passing crush. And jesus, if that doesn’t feel too _middle school_ for someone with bigger fish to fry.

"Okay, _and?"_ Max waves a hand. "It still doesn't mean you can't _like_ him, _now."_

“I’m not _twelve_ , thanks.”

Max lifts a brow. "You _sure?"_

Billy shoves at her with his shoulder. “Just because you have a boyfriend now doesn’t make you some _authority_.” He pauses. “You two still dating?”

Max tosses her braid over her shoulder. "For now," she says, prim as can be, and then dissolves into giggles when Billy looks at her.

He laughs, despite himself, despite everything. “How many times have you dumped him?”

"I think six, now." Max says, leaning into him.

“Jesus. You must like him a lot, huh?”

Max shrugs, but she's smiling. "He's okay."

“Yeah, only okay, huh?”

He’d be worried about Max being treated right, but she’s basically still a baby. Besides, he _also_ knows that she can take care of herself. Billy taught her that.

Max reaches up, Billy's pendant between her fingers as she shrugs again. He's struck, suddenly, with how much she's relied on the memory of him while he's been gone.

"Yeah," she says, smiling up at him. "Pretty okay."

There's a knock at the door, and then Steve is peering in. Billy ignores the way Max looks at him as he straightens up.

"Everything okay?" he asks.

“It’s fine,” Billy says. “When are they getting here?”

“You could come sit with us,” Max says. Billy wants to shove her, but he doesn’t.

Steve glances between them and then _jerks_. Like someone is shoving at him.

And he's holding them off.

"Um. I'm okay." Steve says. "Joyce said she'd be here tomorrow. Sunday at the latest."

“And we play monopoly until then?” Billy asks. “I can’t exactly go back home, you know.”

Robin, of fucking course, chooses that moment to poke her head around Steve’s shoulder. “You’re staying with Steve, duh.”

Steve shoulders her back. "Yeah, I thought that was obvious."

Max pinches at Billy's thigh. Billy does shove her with his shoulder this time.

“Rolling out the Harrington welcome mat for me?” Billy asks. “Is there a guest room, or do I have to sleep on the couch again?”

Anything’s better than the cold metal table he gets an unwanted mental flash of. He stiffens a little, fingers clenching into fists at his sides.

"Guest room," Steve says. "It's nice."

“Great,” Billy says.

Next to him, Max whispers, “You okay?”

Billy just nods.

Max frowns.

"There's extra blankets," Steve says, a little soft.

“Think I might take you up on that right now.”

There's a lot of people and Billy's really tired. Lying down in a quiet place sounds ideal, like a short respite. Something he's maybe, after all this time, earned.

Steve nods. His expression is firm, and he shoves whoever is pushing him away from the door.

"I'll show you the way," he says.

The perfect offering.

Max shoves at Billy after a second when he doesn't budge, shocking him into motion. He stands and suddenly realizes just how exhausted he is, how _weary_. He's never felt like this before. Or -- maybe he has. He just doesn't remember.

“Sleep tight,” Robin says as he passes her.

“Shove it,” Billy grumbles.

Mike and Lucas are there, when Steve takes his wrist in hand to lead him down the hall and up the stairs. He tries not to pay their glares too much attention.

Steve leads him up, up, _up_ the stairs toward the bedrooms on the second story. He opens a door and inside, on the bed, there's a pile of new clothes.

"I figured you were still cold," Steve says.

Billy doesn't know what time it is. All he knows is that he's _tired_.

“I am,” he says, running a hand down his face. “So fucking cold. Feels like I won't get warm ever again.”

At this point, he almost just feels numb to it.

Steve frowns. "There's a space heater in the garage. I could dig it out for you?"

Billy huffs. “I’m fine for now. How about: if I need it, I wake you up at 3 AM, instead?”

When Steve just rolls his eyes, Billy sits down on the bed and pulls off his socks. The bandages underneath are crumpled, fucked up from being underneath socks all day. Slowly, he starts to pull them off, working them away and letting them drop to the floor until his right foot is bare.

“Well shit,” he says under his breath, looking at the shiny pink of newly healed skin now exposed. He touches it and it’s sensitive, but it doesn’t hurt like it did last night. He tilts his foot up to show Steve. “How bad were these last night?”

This morning, they had still been scraped up, raw. Now, they’re healed so much faster than they should be.

Steve draws closer and then drops to his knees on the carpet in front of him. He's frowning at the sole of Billy's foot, a little line between his brows, and he reaches out with tentative hands to grasp Billy's ankle and smooth a thumb over the arch. The touch is simple but _scalding._ Like maybe Steve is carrying all of the heat Billy can't seem to feel in himself.

"Bad enough that this confirms my suspicions," Steve says, and looks up at him from where he's knelt. "Let me see the other one? Your hand, too."

Billy swallows. The room is quiet, though he can still hear the gentle, muted chatter of the kids and Robin downstairs. In contrast, the touch of Steve’s fingers around his ankle is searing.

“Sure,” Billy hears himself say.

Steve lets go and Billy unwraps his other foot, then his hand. Steve takes his hand in his own to study it under the light of the bedside table lamp, his touch so careful. Like they’re _friends_ , like Billy is something to be gentle with.

It’s easier to focus on the heat of Steve’s fingers than the fact that he’s healed so fast in under twenty-four hours.

Steve draws his thumb over Billy's knuckles, back and forth, like it might reveal some wound under the surface. It's a gentle constant. It doesn't stop when Steve looks back up at him again.

"I think--" he says, cutting himself off and grimacing a little, like he's been called on to answer something in class and he thinks he's about to make a fool of himself. "I think they didn't let you rest or feed you properly because of _this._ I think your body needs more because of this."

Billy knows when Steve says _this_ he means _all of it_ even if he doesn't know all of it. The rapid healing. The strength. The speed. The heightened senses.

"I think maybe they didn't want to risk you at full strength because you might… do something. Escape, whatever." Steve adds, his thumb still stroking back and forth over Billy's hand, almost idle, but he offers a little grin. "Be a general handful. More so than usual."

Billy snorts, trying to push past the way his stomach flips, just a little. He puts on a grin, channeling the person he was, the person he doesn’t quite feel like he is, entirely, now.

“Lucky you, Harrington; you get to deal with me instead.”

Steve's smile turns a little lopsided. "Lucky me."

Billy doesn’t know what to _do_ with that, so he just flexes his fingers and Steve’s hand drops away.

“What, not going to check out my other foot? What if I’m growing scales, or something?”

It’s a joke, but at the same time, it gives him pause. What if, Billy thinks, with a dawning sort of horror, it’s infected, black vines crawling up from the soles of his feet like tendrils. Quickly, he pulls up his foot to look at it, to make sure it’s _not_ twisted with an infestation of darkness, of Him. The relief is sweet -- just as sweet as the way Steve’s fingers smooth gently over the new, pink skin.

"Totally healed," he says, huffing a little. "Anything else? You were pretty bruised and cut up. Running through the woods in a storm without a shirt will do that."

Billy hums. He hadn’t even considered the various cuts and scrapes on his chest. Without overthinking it or adding any additional weight to it, he tugs his shirt over his head, leaving himself bare chested and bare. Goosebumps cover his flesh as he looks down -- at basically nothing. His own chest, skinnier than he remembers it from months ago, littered with newly healed flesh.

There are scars-- a large, jagged one at the center of his chest and a few on his sides and, he knows, on his back. But there is no evidence of his run from the night before.

Steve makes a small noise from where he's at on the floor. When Billy looks at him, Steve's eyes are on his chest, on the scar at his sternum, and then his fingers are, too.

"It was dark, last night," he says, like an explanation. "I didn't see how bad it was."

Billy closes his eyes.

He tries to focus. Tries to think of pale green tiles and fluorescent lights. He tries to think through the sympathetic spinning of his own thoughts. He pictures himself in a room, so bright, so _cold_ , and looks down in his memories.

“I think,” Billy says, shivering and with his eyes still closed. “I think those were there before. From -- that day. From Him.”

He gets the feeling that those will never heal over. That he’ll always have scars.

"Oh," Steve says, on a breath, and then nods. "That makes sense, I think. Your tattoo is still there. And the scar on your brow. Like-- like everything that happened _before_ doesn't get a clean sweep just because you've got superpowers, now."

“I think superpowers is maybe over exaggerating,” Billy says, tugging a soft looking blanket over his shoulders. “I can’t throw cars with my mind, like that kid.”

He shivers, as Steve idly traces one of the larger scars. When Billy looks down, he tries to focus on the touch, not on the memory of the way he felt when that _thing_ shoved inside his chest and tried to scream him apart from the inside.

Steve pulls back after a second. The heat of his touch lingers, and Billy hates to admit it even to himself, but he misses it almost instantly.

"I dunno," Steve says. "I think they're pretty super so far."

“Not sure I trust your opinion here, Harrington. You hang out with a bunch of _kids_.”

Steve shrugs. "I've got some bad news for you, but-- you're gonna be hanging out with kids from now on, _too."_

Billy groans, maybe a little more dramatically than necessary.

“You know this is going to affect my _game_ , right? Hanging out with kids all the time.”

Or, you know, also the loss in muscle and weight. Or the way he's now on the run.

"I think you'll manage," Steve smiles. "I should let you get some rest. And I might need to go on a food run, if you're gonna be eating me out of house and home."

“You gonna leave anyone here alone with me?” He grins. “Do you trust me that much?”

Steve meets his gaze and holds it. Steady. Sure.

"Do you plan on hurting any of them?"

“No,” Billy says. “But I didn't before, either. I never _wanted_ to.”

Steve nods. "Then, I trust you."

Billy hums. “As much as I _love_ her, leave your bitchy girlfriend. Think she'd be able to take me better than any of those kids. Do you have any weapons better than that goddamn cattle prod?”

"A few," Steve's head bobs as he pushes to his feet. "My bat. And my dad has a gun safe in the garage."

When Billy's brows shoot up, Steve makes a face.

"It's _Indiana_. Everyone has a gun or two lying around. It's not like he's ever actually _shot_ them."

“Does she know how to shoot? How to even load it?”

"Knowing her? Probably."

Jesus. Of course she does. Billy tried to tell himself that's good. That that makes him _safer_. It's difficult.

“You like ‘em feisty, huh?”

Steve's nose scrunches up. "We're not like that."

“So Max said,” Billy says, a little too tired to think about the fact that he probably shouldn’t have said that.

Steve blinks a few times and then palms the back of his head. "Uh. I'd say I would put a good word in for you, but you're not exactly her type."

“She’s not mine, either,” Billy assures him with a roll of his eyes.

"Oh," Steve says, and then gestures toward the door. "Right, well. I'll let you rest. See you in the morning, I guess?"

“If you find me roaming around your house at 3 am,” Billy says, letting himself fall back down against the bed, getting comfortable amongst sheets that smell like Tide and the Harrington house, “please try not to shoot me.”

Steve smiles, again. Billy doesn't think Steve's ever smiled at him before this.

"No promises," he says, and then makes his way to the door, shutting it softly behind him.


	5. IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A trip down memory lane, prefaced by waffles and followed by cigarettes. It's practically a balanced meal.

Saturday passes in something like a haze.

Steve's tense, all day, a linger pricking snaking along his scalp like a goddamn omen. He knows the other shoe has to drop eventually. He just doesn't know _when_.

Robin stayed the night in one of the other rooms after running home to collect a few things. In the morning, Steve had found her and Billy in the living room, a deck of cards between them, coffee in hand.

It had been near impossible to get Max and the other kids out of the house, but he'd managed it by convincing them it would look suspicious otherwise (and with a promise of baked goods for when they arrived the next day).

So, when they showed up not long after Steve had woken up, he wasn't surprised. He was, however, shocked when Mike started setting up a D&D board on his kitchen table.

"Authenticity," Dustin explained.

Somehow, Steve got dragged into it. Much like how he gets dragged into everything else by these kids.

But Saturday came, and Saturday went, with no word from the Byers.

Sunday morning, Steve wakes to shouting.

He bolts down the stairs, half dressed, and comes to a screeching, faltering stop when he sees the kids yelling at Billy as he attempts to move their map off the table. Steve stands there, blinking owlishly, hair a mess and in nothing but a worn gym shirt and a pair of boxers.

There's a bat in his hand, riddled with nails, solid and sure -- and totally out of place.

"Nice _look_ , Harrington." Robin whistles.

Steve feels heat flood his face. "Shut up. I heard yelling."

“That shit looks familiar,” Billy says, eyes on the bat.

“What, Steve in his boxers?” Robin says. “Thinking fondly of gym class, Hargrove?”

Steve watches as Billy shoulder-checks her. They’re clearly still not on _friendly_ terms -- and Steve’s not really sure why Billy’s impression of her started with an obvious chip -- but they’re definitely getting along better. Enough that their multiple card games yesterday didn’t end in any casualties.

“Steve,” Mike shouts, “tell this interloper to keep his hands off our shit!”

“He’s not an _interloper_ , asswipe,” Max shouts back.

Steve tips his head back and sighs. "It's _way_ too early for this."

"Steve!" Mike's voice cracks and he's gesturing wildly at Billy. "Make him stop!"

Lucas is nodding, arms crossed, but he stops the second Max shoots a look at him.

"Billy," Steve says, tired, so _tired._ "Why are you moving their stuff?"

Billy grumbles something out. When Steve _huh?_ ’s at him, Billy gestures at the kitchen counter, where there is, somehow, a _huge_ stack of pancakes he missed with all of the commotion upon entering the kitchen.

“Breakfast,” Billy repeats.

"You made breakfast?" Steve asks.

"Just eat on the couch," Mike insists.

Steve points the bat at him. "Absolutely _not._ Do you know how hard it is to get maple syrup out of upholstery?"

“You’re a regular Julia Child, huh?” Robin says to Billy, as Dustin pushes him out of the way of the table.

“Fine!” Dustin says, “but he doesn’t get to touch it. _We’ll_ move it to the dining room.”

“Maybe all these pancakes are just for me,” Billy says at Robin, wandering over to snag one off the top of the stack, cramming the whole thing into his mouth.

"I actually wouldn't put it past you," Robin says, smile sickly sweet, and then turns her focus on Steve as the kids start clearing the table. "I never thought I'd say this, but you look _super_ hot, right now. I'm not sure if it's the bat or--"

"Robin," Steve cuts her off, tone dry. "Shut up."

“Yeah, Robin, shut up,” Billy says, mouth full of yet another pancake. Like he is, in fact, trying to eat all of them before Robin can get a chance.

There goes their very short-lived peace treaty, Steve thinks.

Robin whips around on Billy, thunking him in the chest with the back of her hand. " _You_ don't get to tell me to shut up. That right is reserved Harrington and only because he's, like, _actually_ my friend."

“Don't know if you knew this about me, _sweetheart_ , but I basically do whatever I want,” Billy says.

He sounds, very much, like he was when he was Steve's rival back in school. The dick version of Billy Hargrove that seems so familiar, and yet that Steve hasn't seen much of, so far.

Robin's mouth twists into a tight, bitter smile. "Well, I don't know if you knew this about me, _babe,_ but I _can_ and _will_ fuck your shit right up in at least four languages."

Steve really hasn't had enough coffee for these two to start throwing down. He pads over, squeezing easily between them, and they both back up a step like they're surprised.

He plucks up a pancake, still warm, and bites into it-- placing his bat on the counter, casual as can be.

"These are good," he says around a mouthful, waving the pancake at Billy. "You two done fighting, now?"

Robin is staring at the bat. Billy-- Billy is staring right at Steve.

It makes him feel a little hot. A little itchy.

He drums his fingers against the wood of the bat.

"And the biggest dick award goes to…" Robin mutters, impressed. "I'll go set the table."

“Go put on some fucking pants, Harrington,” Billy says.

There's no hint of the biting tone evident in his voice any longer. He just sounds subdued. Like somehow _Steve_ managed to talk down Billy Hargrove just by existing.

It's kind of exciting.

"It's my house," Steve says with a shrug, wondering just how far he can push it. "Ask me nicely."

Billy's eyes narrow.

“What, you don't want the free show, Hargrove?” Robin says.

Billy tenses. He doesn't look at her, but he looks like he _wants_ to. “Put some fucking _clothes_ _on_.”

This time, Billy punctuates it by pushing two fingers against Steve's sternum. Lightly pushing him back the way he came.

"Alright, alright. _Geez_." Steve huffs, plucking up the bat. "Max, make sure your brother doesn't get into any trouble. Dustin, keep Robin in check."

Dustin perks by the table. "You got it, Steve."

“You better watch yourself,” Steve hears Billy say, as he ducks out of the room. He sighs.

It feels like it's going to be a long day.

***

Joyce shows up at Steve's front door around ten in the morning. Breakfast has been had, the kitchen cleaned, and Steve's even got pants on.

Already, a better start than earlier that morning.

"Mrs. Byers." Steve smiles as he opens the door. "C'mon in."

Jonathan has his hand on Will's shoulder as they step in after their mom. El brings up the rear, hair back in a ponytail, and she blinks at Steve.

"Is--" she doesn't get to finish before Mike is there, shoving Steve out of the way, breathing her name like relief itself.

And then they're hugging.

It's honestly kinda cute.

Young love, and all that.

He doesn’t get to think about it too much, because then Joyce is hugging him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. He’s seen her a couple times since they moved, but it still feels like forever.

“How many times have I told you to call me Joyce?” she says, so tiny in his arms.

"A lot," Steve says, a feeling of ease _washing_ through him. "I'm glad you're here."

_I'm glad I don't have to be the adult all by myself._

“I’m glad, too.”

When Steve closes the door behind them, after their hug, _that’s_ when it all starts to get real.

“The kids didn’t tell me any details over the phone. Care to fill me in?” Joyce says, channeling a voice Steve can _only_ identify as that of a protective mother. Not that his mother ever sounded like that -- but he knows.

"Um. Well." Steve laughs a little, and it sounds a little hysteric even to his ears. "Well, I found Billy Hargrove, alive, on Halloween, and brought him home."

Joyce blinks. " _What?"_

Mike rolls his eyes as he pulls away from El in order to move over to Will, wrapping him up in a hug, too. "Steve brought an evil, possessed--"

"Formerly evil and possessed."

"-- an _evil, possessed_ previously _dead_ guy back to his house."

El’s eyes are wide and trained on Steve. She’s hard to read at the best of times, but right now? He’s got no idea what she’s thinking.

“Where is he?” she asks.

"Living room. With the other kids." Steve says.

Will clears his throat. "And he's not… _Him,_ anymore? Secretly?"

"He's pretty kosher with heat. Seems to prefer it, actually."

"But you don't know for sure?" Jonathan asks. "And you left him with the _kids_?"

“We have weapons,” Robin says, poking her head into the entryway. Then, she drops her voice down pretty low. “I’m not really worried. You’ll see. Guy’s kinda...a disaster.” She makes a face.

It’s true, though. Billy looks like death warmed over. He’s looking better every day, but still -- he doesn’t look good. Only a shadow of his former self.

Besides the super-strength and the super-healing, anyway. But Steve...hasn’t exactly told anybody about those, yet.

Joyce straightens out. "Well. Let's go take a look."

Robin nods, leading the way back into the heart of the house. They round the corner, and Steve isn't all that surprised to see Billy still bundled up on the couch, hurling popcorn at where Dustin and Lucas are resetting their game. Steve smiles when Lucas just catches the popcorn in his mouth with a snap of his teeth and Max muffles a laugh behind her hand.

The second Billy sees El, though, he stops.

If Steve didn’t know him better, he’d say Billy looks scared.

Hell -- maybe he _is_. This isn’t the same guy who knocked him out in the Byers’ kitchen a year ago. He’s different. Steve _knows_ that. He’s seen that.

“Hey,” Billy says, at El, at Joyce, at Jonathan, and at Will.

El stares at him, face scrunching up a little. "Hey."

Wrapped up in a blanket on Steve’s floral couch, skinny and sleep-deprived, Billy looks weak. The opposite of dangerous. But he knows the two of them are thinking more of the past, of a time that feels, somehow, like just yesterday.

“Sorry,” Billy says, without prompting, without _warning_. “For trying to kill you.”

It _should_ sound insincere, coming out of Billy Hargrove’s mouth. But it doesn’t.

El nods. "It's… fine. You weren't… _you_."

Steve clears his throat. They both look to him and he feels a little flush.

"That's, uh. Part of why we called." Steve says. "We were hoping you could… check. Make sure he's all him."

“Is that safe?” Joyce asks, though she’s looking at Billy like she’s _concerned_.

"Doesn't hurt," El says, with a little shake of her head. "It's just… weird."

"Can you--?" Mike falters and then hesitates, glancing at Billy. "Are your powers all… you know?"

El smiles. "They're back."

“Like before?” Dustin asks.

“Getting better every day,” El says.

“You don’t have to,” Billy says, surprising Steve. Robin too, from the way she jerks a little at Steve’s side. “If you don’t want to.”

El looks at him, again. With eyes that seem to pierce right through everything.

Steve can't imagine being the focus of that gaze.

"You helped me," she says, after a long moment. "I want to help you."

Billy huffs out a laugh. “Barely,” he says, but then he nods. “But okay. When do we want to do this?”

He looks at Steve.

"Now?" He shrugs. "What do we need?"

"Radio. Dark room. Some place comfortable." El says. "Less people."

“The study?” Billy says.

It’s not Steve’s favorite room in the house, but Billy has sought solace there. Has evidently thought it was comfortable enough to hide away in. He’s found Billy in there a couple other times, since.

"The study should be fine," Steve nods. "Just you and Billy?"

El shakes her head. "It'll work better with an anchor. For both of us."

"I'll do it," Max says in a rush.

“You sure?” Billy asks, but his face brightens, like the prospect of having his sister there with him has lightened some of the load.

"Of course," Max says. "What do I have to do?"

El shrugs. "Be there. Hold his hand. Keep him grounded."

"What about you?" Mike asks.

El smiles again, a small but fond twitch of her lips. "I'll be okay."

"But someone else should be there, too. In case something goes wrong," Mike insists.

Billy looks at Steve, then at Joyce. Then at Will.

And then, back at Steve.

“Can you do it?” he asks.

Steve hesitates. Not because he doesn't want to. Not because he's scared.

He's just surprised.

Max glances at Billy and then turns a pleading stare on him. He knows that even if he _hadn't_ wanted to, he has no choice, now.

"Of course," he says. “Does that work for you?” he asks El.

She nods. “It’s so Mike doesn’t worry.”

Then, she turns and makes her way to the study, all the kids following in her wake, grabbing all the supplies they’ll need for setup, all wanting to help make sure everything goes smoothly. It’s crazy, how quickly they all fall back into their old routine, bickering and pushing at each other and still giggling, too.

“Thanks,” Billy says, pushing up from the couch and onto his feet. He still has a blanket over his shoulders and it looks like it’s staying for the time being.

"Yeah, no problem."

He turns to Joyce, then, offering a little smile. She returns it with a quick one of her own.

"You guys can just make yourselves at home," he says. "I'm sure the kids will fill you all in while we're-- yeah."

"Don't worry, Steve." Joyce says, patting his shoulder. "We'll be fine. You just help your friend."

Steve's eyes dart helplessly to where Billy's hovering. He wonders if they can even consider themselves friends.

He finds he doesn't really mind the idea at all.

"Wanna head in?" he asks Billy. "Get you comfortable before all the weird mind stuff?"

Billy nods and leads the way into the study.

The kids have done a pretty good job. They pulled the curtains shut, have piled a bunch of pillows down on the ground, and already have a radio humming out static. In the center of it all is El, sitting cross legged on the floor, bandana blind-fold in hand. At this point, he figures the kids must just keep one of those on hand. Steve helps Billy sit down opposite El, Max sitting to his right, already sliding her hand into his.

The kids linger in the doorway of the dark room, silhouetted by the light from the hall.

With a little swing of her head, El shuts the door on them and locks it

Steve straightens out, lingering a little helplessly, and he leans against his dad's desk. He'd be scolded if his dad were here, but he's _not._ Steve thinks his dad would lose it if he saw his office, right now.

"We're checking for the Mind Flayer," El says, a bit like a question.

"Yeah," Steve nods. "And anything you can find about the last few months he's been gone. Who took him. Where. Why."

“Do you remember anything?” El asks.

Steve almost answers _no_ for him, but Billy cuts him off.

“Some. Most of it, up until -- well. Until He got me. But some of that’s shadows. Like I was far away while my body was doing something else. And then -- afterwards, I just have snippets. I remember a lab. Green tiles. Bright lights. It was cold.”

"Cold," El says. "You don't like the cold?"

“No,” Billy says, with a vicious shake to his head. “It was so _fucking_ cold.”

Max squeezes at his hand. Her expression is tight, pinched, with concern.

Steve crosses his arms over his chest, palms itching. He understands the look on Max's face, intimately; he wants to hunt down every blanket in his house, right now, and cover Billy with them.

"That's good," El says. "That you don't like it cold. The Mind Flayer did."

“I know,” Billy says. Steve watches his throat bob as he swallows. “Made me take a bath in a tub full of ice.”

"Right," El says. "Are you ready?"

“What do I have to do?” Billy asks.

"Let me in," El says, then taps her temple. "You let me in before. You wanted my help."

Steve watches as Billy takes a long breath. The lights all flick off -- likely El, and her powers. The room’s still lit by the crack underneath the door, by a gap in the curtain. It’s dim -- but Steve can still see. Enough.

El puts the blindfold on and then reaches out. She takes Billy's free hand in hers, careful, gentle. Billy shudders and then closes his eyes.

He watches for a moment as nothing happens.

Then, he watches Billy _sag_ forward, until his forehead touches El’s. His breathing starts to go fast and his hand tightens in Max’s grip. It’s quiet, and Steve can only look on.

He feels useless, standing here, _watching._ He thinks Max must feel a little helpless, too, because she looks at him and places her other hand over where Billy is clutching onto her.

"She's bleeding," Max whispers.

Steve wets his lips and moves over, sitting down cross legged next to them. "That's normal, right?"

Max nods.

“Means it’s working,” she says, in a whisper.

Next to him, Billy is shaking, shivering. Steve wants to put another blanket on him -- hell, he wants to _hold_ him, just to warm him up -- but he knows better. He doesn’t want to hinder, doesn’t want to break the connection between the two of them.

He shifts, hands flexing in his lap. He keeps his gaze on Billy's face, on the way his jaw twitches tight. On the way he features twist up, like maybe he's in pain.

It makes his leg bounce a little, skin too tight, like he's gearing up for a fight-- but there isn't one and Steve feels like pacing. Feels trapped in his own body. _Useless._

It’s a long time before anything truly happens. But when it does, it all happens at once.

Billy gasps and jerks back from El. He breaks away from Max and scrambles backwards with wide, watery eyes. He’s breathing hard, chest heaving as he backs himself up against the wall, wrapping his knees to his chest. When Steve hazards a glance away, El opens her eyes and smears away the blood from her nose. Steve looks back at Billy, only to find Max next to him, and Billy’s head on his knees. He looks -- and sounds -- like he’s sobbing.

If Steve didn’t know what to do before, he _really_ doesn’t know what to do now. A crying Billy Hargrove isn’t anything he’d ever thought he’d see.

“What did you find?” he asks El, instead, in a low voice. “Is he compromised?”

"No," she says, and meets Steve's gaze, eyes wide. "He's bait."

***

Billy's voice cracks as he sobs into the cradle of his knees. "It's not my fault, Max. I _swear_ it's not my fault-- I didn't _mean to._ I didn’t _know_. _"_

Steve feels like an intruder. He feels _sick_.

Worse, the kids are hovering wide eyed in the doorway as El steps out.

"Go to the living room," he says. " _Now."_

There's no room for argument. No space for protest. They move as Steve stares them down, and Steve shuts the door as they drift down the hall.

Max is hushing Billy, holding onto him as he rocks, hand smoothing back and forth over his scalp. She looks so small, even next to Billy's thin form. She looks so _devastated_ ; eyes wet and wide as she looks up at Steve.

"It's okay," she says, voice wobbling. "We know you didn't mean to. We know. It's okay."

El's words are still ringing in his ears. They let Billy _go_. They sent him out, hoping he'd start _building_ again. They sent him out, hoping El would come for him and stop him. _Kill him._

They sent Billy out as _bait_. To die.

Steve grabs the blanket from off the couch and shuffles over. With every ounce of care he has, he drapes it around Billy, helping Max tuck it over him.

“I'm fine,” Billy says, even though he very clearly _isn't,_ even though he is still sniffling through the aftershocks of tears.

“You don't have to be fine,” Max says. “You don't always have to be fine, you know.”

Steve nods. "It's okay to be not okay. I would've broken down a lot sooner."

Billy just makes a disbelieving sort of sound and tugs the blanket a little closer into himself.

“Jesus. Ruining my whole fucking image in front of you, Harrington.”

Max pats at Billy's shoulder. “You're still pretty.”

"Super pretty," Steve says, because he's just trying to be reassuring, doesn't even realize what he's saying until it's out of his mouth, and then he's blushing and snagging a tissue box off his dad's desk and pressing it into Billy's hands. "And, I mean, you can, like, snap me like a toothpick with your superpowers, so."

“ _See_ , Steve thinks you're -- wait, _superpowers?_ ”

Steve jerks a little and then blanks for, like, an _entire_ second.

But then he looks at Max, at the pendant around her neck, at her hand still rubbing back and forth over Billy's shoulder. He figures, if anyone would react well to Billy's new abilities, it would be his sister.

"Yeah," he says. "Your brother is basically Captain America, now."

“ _What?!”_

“I'm stronger. I heal faster,” Billy says. “And I can hear shit that I shouldn't. El’s telling all your little friends about me, and the Wheeler kid is pulling an _I told you so_.”

Steve's brows fly up. "I didn't know about _that_."

"Mike is such a _dick_ ," Max mumbles.

“What, about me hearing?” Billy asks, eyes on Steve. “And yeah, that kids annoying as fuck. He goes first,” Billy says with a tone that says he's joking.

Max chokes on a kind of hysterical laugh, squeezing at Billy's shoulders.

Steve purses his lips to keep from grinning. "Yeah. Didn't realize your senses were heightened. If Dustin were in here, he'd say we should test it."

“I keep hearing all your little conversations with him, if that counts. And Robin, too.”

Max hits at him. “Hey! Eavesdropping isn't nice.”

“When have I _ever_ been _nice_?”

Steve clears his throat. "Should I get you earplugs?"

He tries not to think about what Billy might've overheard. Hopes he didn't hear him lamenting to Robin about any nightmares or fears or _anything_ really.

“Don't worry. Haven't heard anything too bad. I know you _suck_ at picking up chicks at work, though.”

The tips of Steve's ears feel hot, and he hangs his head as Max laughs again.

"Right," Steve mutters. "So, you're feeling better, then?"

“About as good as I can get.”

"Cool, that means I can start telling you when you're being a dick, again." Steve says.

Max snorts and then holds out her hand. Steve smacks it, palm to palm, with a soft crack. The laziest high five in the world.

“Jesus, you guys _suck_ ,” Billy says, but it sounds fond. He drags a hand over his face, and then his head -- pausing, like he was going to drag it through his hair and then forgot it wasn't there. “We should probably head back in. Come up with a game plan, huh? El needs to get out of here. I want her as far away from me as possible.”

"Probably," Steve says.

Max lets out a small sound. "El can make her own decisions. It's up to her if she wants to stay or go."

“Guess so.” Billy lets out a long sigh. “But the more people are here, the more everyone's in danger.”

Steve grunts, pushing to his feet, holding out his hand for Billy. "We're used to danger. Let's go make the game plan."

Billy takes his hand. It's easy to haul him to his feet, now, he's so light. Steve helps Max up, too.

“Go team,” Max says.

“Team _nerd_ ,” Billy snorts, but he follows them out the door all the same.

***

"So, it's Russians," Steve says, as El starts explaining what she saw during her walkabout in Billy's head.

He wants a cigarette.

"Yes," she says. "They're trying to find a different way to open the Gate without their machine."

He _really_ wants a cigarette.

Robin sits down next to him, thigh to thigh. He's grateful for it, the close human contact. They both went through it, they both know how bad it was. At least to Robin, Steve has to explain none of it. She just _gets_ him.

“They think I can do it,” El says.

“Can you?” Billy asks.

“Why do you wanna _know_?” Mike says.

“Because I’m _evil_ ," Billy says at Mike, all drawn out as he waves his fingers around in the air like an asshole.

“I don't know,” El says with a shrug. “Doesn't matter though. They won't catch me. And if they can't reopen the Gate, we have nothing to worry about.”

Steve doesn't think that's exactly _true_ , but he doesn't say it.

"You opened it last time," Will says. "It was an accident, but still."

"And I doubt that they'll give up easy," Robin says, elbows on her knees, fingers laced loosely in front of her. "You can't run forever. They're obviously laying low, but. They're gonna come looking for their investment eventually, if they haven't already, so staying here isn't smart."

Steve feels a cold sweat prickle across his skin. He doesn't like to think about Russians storming his fucking _house_. Not a bit.

“We can't just sit here and wait,” Robin says.

The boys all nod. “We need a game plan for how to fight!” Dustin says.

“I don't think we can take them down like that,” Billy says.

“Thank you,” Joyce agrees. “ _No one_ is fighting the Russians.”

"How many were there?" Steve asks; blurts, really, leg bouncing.

Dustin nods. "They had a whole underground base, last time."

"Not many," El says. "There are more, somewhere else, but it was… small. They made a lot of phone calls."

She looks to Billy for confirmation.

“Five or six doctors. More staff. Maybe fifteen. That'd be just the people I interacted with. So, less than fifty, maybe. At the facility. It wasn't big. I think it was just at an abandoned lab complex.”

Which means Billy remembers. It also means that it's not quite like their previous experience.

Steve frowns. "Do you remember where it was? Could you backtrack?"

Billy shakes his head. “Not sure. Just knew I had to get to the mall. I felt it. Like a fucking beacon.” He closes his eyes. “Kinda still do, now.”

Mike stares him down, arms crossed, pacing back and forth. "You sure he's not still evil?"

El gives him a _look._

For the first time, he looks vaguely chided. "Sorry."

"Okay," Steve nods. "They sent you out as bait for El. There's not many of them, but there's still _too_ many. We don't know when they'll show up once they realize he's not doing what they want. We need backup."

"Preferably backup with guns," Lucas says.

“Where can we _go_? You're not just suggesting we stay here, right?” Billy asks.

"El can't stay near him if he's bait," Mike insists.

Max huffs. "You can't make that decision for her."

Pink in the face, Mike crosses his arms. "I'm not making decisions for her, I'm just saying it's stupid and dangerous and _stupid!"_

"Well, I think _you're_ stupid," Max snaps.

And then, helplessly, Steve watches as the kids all start yelling at each other.

Lucas takes Max's side. Dustin takes Mike's. Will is trying to mediate.

It's a living goddamn migraine.

Worse, Mike spits out something about Billy, pointing a finger at him, and Billy shrinks in on himself. Minutely, but enough that Steve notices. And, really, Steve's had about enough.

" _Hey!"_ he barks, his voice loud enough that it carries over all of them. "Everybody needs to sit down and _shut up_."

Mike and Max both turn to look at him, mouths open, like they're gonna argue with _him_ , too.

" _Sit down,"_ he says, looking at them both as their teeth click shut and they slump onto the couch, looking every bit like the scolded teenagers they are. "Thank you."

Jonathan looks like he might be trying not to laugh. His shoulders are shaking where he's standing, hand over his mouth, next to his mother.

Robin nudges at his knee.

"Last time, the US calvary came in hot because Joyce and Hopper called them. Do we still have that number?" Steve asks, looking at Joyce.

She nods, smile small and just as amused as Jonathan looks.

"That's back up, then." Steve says. "And do _any_ of you know some place off the grid? Some place El can go to lay low?"

Joyce nods, after what appears to be a quick moment of thought. “Yes, I know somewhere we could go. But what about you?” She looks at Steve, and then at Billy.

Billy just shrugs. “Other than literally going to _California_ , which they'd probably suspect, I've got nothing. Harrington here’s my best bet.”

“And they haven't stormed the place, yet." Robin says. "I don't think they were expecting Steve to bring Billy home like a stray. Maybe they lost track of him."

“It’s not like they’d think to look here,” Billy says, slow. “Harrington and I weren’t exactly _friends_.”

“You think?” Dustin mumbles, but it’s not nearly as venomous sounding as it would be coming from someone like Mike.

“That’s probably for the best,” Jonathan says.

When Steve looks at him, Jonathan shrugs.

"Means you'll be safe here, at least for a while, right?" he asks. "No Russians breaking down the doors."

Steve can't help it; he shudders. "Comforting," he says. "I'll sleep like a baby tonight."

“We can take shifts,” Billy says.

“That means I’ll have to stick around. Think you can put up with me for any longer, Hargrove?” Robin says.

Billy huffs. “Could be worse,” he says.

“Yeah, you _could_ be stormed by the Russians while you’re sleeping!” Dustin says.

Steve's throat feels _tight._ Like he can't swallow. Like he can't _breathe._

He listens, in a half haze, eyes fixed somewhere on his mom's carpet.

"So, we'll take off with El and call in support from there--" Joyce is saying.

"I'll come with you," Mike says.

"We've got _school_ on Monday," Lucas frowns. "Shouldn't we try and act _normal?"_

“Yeah,” Dustin says, “we should.”

“You absolutely should,” Joyce agrees. “No one is coming with us.”

Mike sits up. "But--"

"Mike," El says, and then reaches over and takes his hand. "I'll be fine."

"So, we've got a plan." Will says, a little soft, a little tentative.

Dustin nods. "We've got a plan."

"Thank God," Robin huffs. "I'm _starving."_

And like that's some sort of cue, they all start moving. Robin is up and heading for the kitchen; the kids are asking for pizza. Joyce is pulling El aside, talking to her in a hushed voice, hands on her shoulders. Max is turned to Billy, checking on him.

Steve stands. He pushes up and feels a bit wobbly. Like his legs are too long. Like they’re not even his anymore.

He needs air.

The back door slides open easy. He doesn't come out here all that often anymore, but he can't smoke inside.

There's a pack of cigarettes he's got hiding behind the towels in the outdoor cabinet. A lighter rests on top. He plucks them up, taps one out, and plops himself down onto one of the loungers as he inhales.

The pool is still filled with water, open for the season. It’s heated, but Steve rarely goes in it anymore. Except for sometimes, real late at night when he’s feeling particularly restless, overwhelmingly pent-up. He leans back on the lounger, tilts his head up to the dusty blue sky and lets his eyes his eyes fall closed as the nicotine starts to hit his system. It helps, but only a little. Like putting a bandaid on a 3rd degree burn.

It’s at least five minutes before he’s interrupted, which is -- honestly longer than he thought he’d get.

“Can I bum one of those?” Billy’s voice tugs Steve out of his thoughts.

When he opens his eyes, Billy’s sitting on the lounger right next to Steve, facing him. He looks a little better today. Less pale, more flushed with life. He’s still so skinny, though, even though it seems like he’s eaten Steve out of house and home already.

Steve holds out the pack, even as he says, "Should you be out here?"

Billy snags a cigarette, and then the lighter. He lights up and breathes in. For a moment, Steve feels like he’s witnessing some sort of religious experience, with the way Billy’s eyes flutter closed, eyelashes looking dark on his pale cheeks. It might actually be his first cigarette since ‘coming back to life.’

“ _Shit_ ,” Billy breathes. He looks around, eyes wide. “I forgot the Russians were watching me _from the trees_.” Then, he laughs.

"It'd be a little less funny if you knew Jonathan Byers took creepy candids from those _trees_ ," Steve says, drawing on his cigarette, eyes on Billy.

“I’d pay to see those,” Billy says.

Steve knows it’s a joke, but he honestly can’t tell if Billy’s being serious or not.

"I kind of destroyed them," Steve says. "And his camera."

“King Steve,” Billy breathes out with a cloud of smoke, smile going a little wide. “We woulda been friends, probably. If you hadn’t, well --” Billy gestures with a sweep of his hand. “Gone kinda bitch.”

It doesn’t sound _mean_ , though. Not really.

"Woulda ruled the school," Steve mutters and _imagines it_ , for a second.

Never getting involved in this whole mess. Drinking and partying and probably working with Billy at the pool.

Probably getting liquified when Billy got possessed.

“Yeah,” Billy agrees. He breathes in, falling silent for a moment before talking again. “You know, I tried to hook up with Karen Wheeler,” he says. “That night. Before He got me.”

" _What?"_ Steve nearly chokes on smoke. "Nancy's _mom? Mike's_ mom? Are you _crazy?"_

Billy laughs. At Steve, likely.

“Have you _seen_ her, Harrington? She’s fucking hot.” He takes another drag from his cigarette and follows it up with: “I was bored, she was lonely. I keep thinking about it, though. If I’d have gone a different route, if I’d have driven faster…I would’ve just been a homewrecker, instead of a monster.”

Steve falters. He doesn't want to ask, but he _does_. And Billy's already talking.

"What was it-- I mean, how did it happen?" Steve asks, voice low, like if he talks too loud he might spook Billy off.

“Thought I hit something with my car,” Billy says. “Wrong place, wrong time. I got out to check, and it pulled me into the basement of this fucking warehouse and,” he stops and shudders. “Crammed itself right down my throat. Basically.”

"Oh," Steve breathes. "That's rough."

Because what else can he say? It could've been anyone. It could've been Steve or one of the kids or a total stranger.

Billy was just unlucky. _Real_ fucking unlucky.

“That’s what I get for trying to fuck a married woman. Maybe karma’s actually a _thing_.”

Steve sighs, tipping his head back. For a moment, he sits there and drags on his cigarette until it's nearly down to the filter.

"Why'd you do it?" Steve asks, eventually, because he's curious. "Try and hook up with Mrs. Wheeler, I mean. You could have anybody."

_Even now_ , Steve thinks, though he's not quite sure where that thought springs from. He just knows it's true. Even skinnier and paler and tired, Billy's still gorgeous.

“Told you. I was bored, she was lonely and horny. Honestly?” Billy takes a long drag, finishing up his cigarette. He stubs it out on the pool deck. “She wanted me and it was easy. _And,_ it would’ve made for some great bragging rights. Everyone wants to say they nailed a mom.”

"Is that all it takes to catch your interest? Someone lonely and horny?" Steve asks, mostly joking.

Billy _laughs_. Steve watches as he drapes himself across the lounger and looks up at the sky. For a moment, he looks very much like his old self.

“Believe me, I wasn’t _interested_ in Karen Wheeler. She’s not exactly my type.”

"You _have_ a type?" Steve teases, just a little, grinning and leaning back. "I mean, you don't just go for _anything_ with two legs and a short skirt?"

Because Billy seemed to _blow through_ , like, _every girl_ last year. Always had a different one on his arm.

Billy’s eyes fall closed. “Yeah, I’ve got a type, Harrington. Like ‘em pretty, with big doe eyes.” He laughs, loud and a little mean, even though Steve’s not sure _why_. “You don’t have to like the people you fuck. I learned that a long time ago. Image is everything, especially when everyone’s watching you.”

"That… sounds pretty shitty," Steve says. "Why wouldn't you just fuck who you like?"

Billy just hums. Then, he smiles. It looks a little sad. “Let’s just say I’m too picky for small town Indiana, huh?”

"Oh," Steve nods, looking away from him, out into the thick line of trees; he doesn't know _why,_ but he feels _disappointed._ "Was there someone back in California?"

“Yeah,” Billy says, breathing out. “But we broke up, before I left. And that was a long time ago.”

"Well, at least you had _someone_ , right?"

A laugh. “If we’re gonna talk about my love life, Harrington, I think I need to be real drunk.”

"Right, sorry." Steve says. "Figured it was better than talking about giant monsters or evil Russians."

“What about your love life?” Billy says. He snags another cigarette out of Steve’s pack. “That topic free game?”

"Um. Sure? But I mean," Steve licks his lips, tastes tobacco there, and stamps out the demolished cigarette on the deck. "You kinda already heard about how shitty it is while eavesdropping."

“I heard that you have no game. And that you’re _allegedly_ not dating your friend in there.” He gestures at the house.

"We're definitely not dating and we _definitely_ never will," Steve says, then smiles a little. "I'm not her type."

When Steve looks back at Billy, Billy’s already looking at him. “Those eyes and that hair? Pretty sure you’re anyone’s type, King Steve.”

Steve feels his face go a little _warm_. He remembers Billy still calling him _pretty boy_ not too long ago at all.

"Trust me," he says. "She's not interested in me. Not even a little."

Billy laughs. “What, is she a lesbian?”

Steve knows he's fucked up the second he freezes. Knows the hesitation, the shock, says _too much_. Knows the second Billy's eyes go a little wide that Steve's just betrayed Robin's trust.

It's _shitty._ It's _awful._

"Um," Steve scrambles. "Uh, no. No, she-- she just-- she likes somebody else."

It's not _exactly_ a lie. Robin always likes someone else. Her taste just blows.

Unfortunately, the second Billy starts fucking _laughing_ , loud as _shit_ , Steve knows that his flimsy save didn’t work at _all_. Honestly, he wants to _shush_ Billy, because it’s so loud you can probably hear it from inside the house -- from down the goddamn block. They’re supposed to be hiding, here -- and Steve’s not supposed to tell Robin’s secrets to _anyone_. He kicks at Billy, then pushes at his shoulder and hisses at him to _shut up_.

“Jesus, that’s fucking hilarious,” Billy says, between large gulps of air, still snickering as he quiets down, wiping tears of mirth away from his eyes. “Sorry, it’s just -- jesus fucking christ. I can’t _believe.”_

It’s not _exactly_ how Steve thought he’d react.

"It's not _funny_ ," Steve snarls, something protective welling up in his chest.

“No, it’s _hilarious_ ,” Billy says. He glances at the house, like he can _see_ Robin wandering around in the kitchen. “It really is.”

"Listen, I know you know how to be a grade-A _dick_ and that you've been through some shit, but I swear to god, Billy, if you even _look_ at her funny--"

Billy interrupts him with a roll of his eyes. “Honest to god, Harrington; save it. I’m not going to hassle her for liking pussy.”

Steve jerks a little. Freezes. Falters. Anger fizzling right out.

"Oh. Good."

“Besides, that’s great for you, right? You guys can pick up chicks together. Isn’t that, like, the dream?”

Steve slumps back in his seat. "I guess? She's, uh. She's better at it than I am. I'm apparently just the honey trap."

“That just means you’re pretty,” Billy says. “Nothing wrong with that.”

Steve rolls his eyes. "I'm not _pretty."_

“You are,” Billy says, like it’s obvious. Like he’s some sort of authority.

Steve scoffs out a little sound, arms crossing, looking away. Mostly because he never knows what to _do_ with that.

With someone calling him pretty.

"I guess," he says. "Don't see _how_ , but whatever."

“Come on,” Billy says through another laugh. It’s less loud this time, more private. “You’ve got the hair, the eyes, the lips. Honestly, the whole face. It’s probably just your _game_ , like your lesbian love’s suggested.”

"There's nothing wrong with my game," Steve protests. "I show genuine interest in my potential dates."

“Then be more aloof. Cool. You’re a cool guy, Harrington. Clearly you’re not letting them see that.”

Steve's nose wrinkles up. "Are you giving me dating advice? Is that what this conversation has turned into?"

“Apparently. I gave Max dating advice, too. And it looks like that turned out decently.”

"Okay, so, what? I play it cool and score all the chicks? I kinda don't think that's important, right now, all things considered."

Billy nods. “You’re right. You’re gonna be stuck babysitting me for a while, instead of playing the field. Sorry, King Steve. I’m kinda a handful.” Then, he grins, big and wide, and Steve’s stomach goes a little _twisted_.

Steve clears his throat and finally pulls out another cigarette and lights it up. "Yeah, I noticed."

They sit in companionable silence for a little while, until Robin comes out to join.

“Lunch is ready, dinguses.”

Steve watches as Billy _grins_ at her, a mile wide. No hint of his earlier distaste in his expression -- just pure Billy Hargrove: delighted and a little bit vicious. He holds out Steve’s pack of cigarettes toward her. “Care to join us?”

Her brow arches. "You sure I wouldn't be interrupting? You two look cozy."

Billy laughs. “If we were cozy -- trust me, you’d know.”

Steve doesn’t get it. One little fact about Robin shouldn’t make Billy _like_ her all that much more. Hell, it means, if anything, that Robin is out of his league, totally unobtainable. He would’ve thought that, for someone like Billy Hargrove, that wouldn’t be a _plus_.

Unless he thinks he can _win her over_ \-- which, maybe? But he doesn’t really seem to be putting on his usual charms. He’s acting -- _almost_ , by Billy Hargrove standards, anyway -- friendly.

Robin crosses her arms, eyes narrowed on Billy's smiling face. "Thanks, but no thanks. I was just sent to inform you that there's food."

"Thanks, Rob," Steve says. "We'll be right in."

Billy shrugs. “More Harrington for me.”

Robin's eyes go a little wide, and then she's looking between the two of them. Steve doesn't really get it, but her mouth is twitching like she's seeing something he doesn't.

"Uh huh," she says. "Soak it up while you can. I called dibs first."

Billy looks like he’s thinking for a moment, then he chews at his lip. Then tongues at the spot. “Did you actually?”

"Yep," Robin says, leaning in the doorway. "Like I said, our club is private. You haven't been invited, yet."

“What do I have to do to get an invite?” Billy asks.

"I'll know it when I see it," Robin says, pushing off the door jamb. "You guys better get in here before the munchkins eat everything."

And then she's stepping back inside, door shutting behind her.


	6. V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> God knows, _someone_ needs to teach Steve Harrington how to dance. Billy'll fall on that grenade.

The Byers spend Sunday night at the Harrington’s. Steve opens up his parents’ bedroom for Joyce, Jonathan sleeps on the sofa, and Will and El sleep on the daybed in the basement. For a big house that sleeps so many, Billy thinks that it was shockingly empty before all this. Just Steve, rattling around all by his lonesome. Sunday evening, Joyce makes spaghetti with Billy’s help, while Jonathan and Steve shuttle all the kids back to their respective houses. It’s weird, spending time with a mom who his charms don’t work on, but Billy enjoys it. Joyce is quiet, but nice. Fierce, but also kind.

Monday morning finds the house quieter. The kids are all gone, save Will and El; Robin headed off to work at eight; and Jonathan’s probably (according to Steve) trying to get in some quality time with Nancy Wheeler.

Billy’s out by the pool, legs dangling into the warm water, when El finds him. She sits down to his side, cross-legged. Her shirt is a pink and purple floral monstrosity that Billy actually kind of loves -- it’s very in, according to all of Mrs. Harrington’s magazines littering the kitchen counter.

“That print’s a good look on you,” Billy says. “Very stylish.”

El shrugs a little, but she's got one of those little smiles on her face that he sees her wearing around Max. "It's the me I want to be."

“Jesus, that's deep. I'm not caffeinated enough for that.”

He kicks at the water lazily, watching the little whirlpools his movements create.

El watches, quiet, for a moment. Then, with a little flick of her fingers, sets the water swirling lazily.

Billy huffs our a quiet laugh. “Pretty sure that's cheating.” He kicks again, spiraling his own water next to hers. “Whats up, pipsqueak?”

El's brows draw together, frowning. "Pipsqueak?"

“Means you're small.”

Maybe he shouldn't give the girl who could kill him instantly a nickname, but it's kinda cute. And he's kinda fond of her. In a respectfully fearful kind of way.

Her nose kind of scrunches up-- but then she's laughing. Giggling, really.

It makes Billy grin right back.

When she settles back down again, she sends another lazy swirl through the water and then sighs. There's a blue bracelet on her wrist that she fidgets with it.

"You're like me," she finally says, after a moment.

He's not sure, exactly, what he'd been expecting out of her mouth, but it wasn't that.

“Yeah?” Billy says. He doesn’t want to ask how they’re similar. Doesn’t want to start prying off bandages of her healing trauma. Doesn’t want to start plucking too much at his own, either. “This is pretty fucked up, huh?” He takes a breath and lets it out, letting his gaze fall upward, to the big autumnal sky above them. “Maybe I shouldn’t say _fuck_.”

El hums. "Very fucked up."

Billy laughs. “Think this all kind of makes us blood brothers, you know?”

"Blood brothers," El repeats, blinking a few times, and then smiles again. "I have a sister. Number eight. Kali. You could be number twelve."

She flips her wrist over. There's three numbers tattooed there-- 011.

"Eleven," she says. "El."

Billy breathes in through his teeth, wishing painfully for a cigarette right now. It’s a heavy thing, seeing that tattoo. Knowing that this girl, this _child_ ’s identity comes from a number that some asshole in a lab coat gave her. It makes Billy want to tear them apart, makes him want to lean over and take her into his arms.

“I’ve got one of those,” he says.

He shucks off Steve’s sweatshirt, and then rolls up the sleeve of the tee underneath, so he can show El the skull tattoo there, the one he got the day he turned eighteen.

El reaches up, tracing the line of the skull, the cigarette jutting out between its teeth. She smiles a little, almost shy, and meets his gaze.

"Bitchin'," she says.

“Very bitchin’,” he says. “Also _badass_.”

El snorts a little. "That's a new one."

“You learn something new every day, huh?”

She’s a cute kid, really. He’s not sure how old she is, but she’s probably Max’s age, given that they all hang out together. Then again, given all the shit she’s been through? She’s probably years ahead of them. She doesn’t deserve that -- she deserves to be wide-eyed and in awe of the world, not to already know all the darkness that lingers in all of the corners.

Kids don’t need that kind of trauma, Billy thinks. Better to give it to someone like him, someone who’s been around the block a few times.

"Yeah," El says. "Have you? Learned something new?"

Billy thinks of his time in this house, of the people in it. He’s only been here five days, not _even_ , and it’s already more of a home than his house in Hawkins ever was to him. It’s full of people who genuinely care about each other, full of people with close bonds and unending loyalty. It’s full of caring -- some of that even in his direction. This house, even though the owners are absent from within its walls, is filled with a warmth and an affection he hasn’t felt in years. Not since he was a kid. Not since his mom.

And, to differing extents for each of them, the people in this house care about him, even a bit. And that’s _new_.

Billy thought no one would give a shit if he died.

Turns out, he was wrong.

“Yeah,” he says, nodding. “Yeah, I have.”

***

Billy wakes on the couch with the smell of something _exquisite_ in the air.

Gradually, over the last two days, he's had to sleep less and less. While he wasn't able to stay standing let alone _awake_ for very long, at first, it seems that his body is finally evening out. Still, the occasional nap drags him under, even if he slept nearly ten hours the night before.

He can hear the sound of something sizzling and being shuffled around in a pan over the low thrum of music. Can hear water boiling. Can hear Steve _singing_ , under his breath, even from the living room, as he toils away in the kitchen.

One thing that doesn't seem to be changing is Billy's appetite. A bit of color has returned to his skin and there are fewer shadows under his eyes, sure, but he always feels half starved _._

The hunger drags him to his feet to investigate, and he finds Steve barefoot in the kitchen, swaying as he dices tomatoes on a cutting board. There's an open bottle of wine next to the stove and a half empty glass next to Steve. He looks focused, intent, and totally relaxed.

Billy's always thought he was _pretty_ , but with his hair falling into his face and a bit of wine reddening his cheeks as he scoops up the tomatoes to add to the sausage sizzling away in the pan, Billy thinks he looks _beautiful._

He gives himself thirty seconds, just to look. To admire. Hovering just outside Steve’s peripheral.

Only then does he walk more directly into Steve’s line of vision. He leans on the island in the middle of the counter, arms crossed, channeling more and more of the confidence of his former self as every day goes by. It’s always a little bit of an act, and it feels less genuine now, but it’s still _fun_ , turning on the charm just to tease like he used to.

“Dinner _and_ a show, huh?” Billy says, smile a mile wide.

Steve jumps when he startles, whipping around and facing Billy with a hand on his chest and the other clutching the knife like a weapon. "Don't _do_ that," he says.

“What, it’s not like I have a long history of violence against you.” Billy grins.

Steve rolls his eyes. "No, not at all. Not like we're on high alert or anything."

“Uh huh,” Billy says, tonguing his lips as he keeps on smiling. “So, what’s housewife Harrington cooking up tonight?”

Billy loves the way the tips of Steve's ears go pink, even as he gives Billy a downright _foul_ look. "Fettuccini calabrese. It's a recipe from my nonna. Makes a lot and it's easy."

“ _Dooo_ you need any help?” Billy asks. He pushes off the counter where he’s leaning and wanders over, stealing a bit of tomato off Steve’s cutting board.

"How are you at cutting mushrooms?" Steve asks, stirring the beginnings of a sauce around in the pan; there's a _fuck ton_ of garlic at the bottom.

“I’m pretty sure I can manage to cut some mushrooms,” Billy says.

Steve gestures to the fridge with a swing of his head. "In there-- there's a carton."

“You really gonna trust me with a knife, pretty boy?” Billy asks, snagging the carton out of the fridge, and then a cutting board for himself.

He sets up next to Steve and rinses off the mushrooms by the sink, depositing the clean mushrooms on the cutting board after popping off the stems.

Some poppy _Tears for Fears_ song is playing on the radio. Steve's singing under his breath, again, adding the pasta to the pot of boiling water. Then, he's next to Billy, like he's checking his work.

"Thin slices, but not too thin," he says. "This dish is half aesthetic and half taste. You wanna be able to tell it's a mushroom."

Billy does as he’s told, chopping the mushrooms according to Steve’s rules until they’re all done.

“You cook for all your houseguests? Or only the pretty ones?”

"All of them," Steve says, pouring some wine into the sauce pan, seemingly eyeballing the amount. "But I only let the pretty ones handle the sharp cutlery."

Billy watches him work, snagging Steve’s wine glass to steal a sip from it, casual but languid, like he _wants_ Steve to see -- which he does; there’s nothing sneaky about it. It earns him a roll of those big brown eyes. The whole moment is delightful, really. Steve’s words, even in jest, are almost as good as being told that Steve thinks Billy is pretty. Sure, Billy knows he is (less so now, without his muscles and his hair), but still. It’s nice to _hear_.

“So, when’s the last time you _entertained_?” Billy asks, giving his eyebrows a suggestive waggle.

Steve shrugs a shoulder, pushing the bits of sausage and tomato and garlic around in the pan before reaching over to scoop up the mushrooms, adding them to the mix. He's a little more red in the face, like what he's about to say is embarrassing.

"Nancy," he mutters.

Billy’s eyebrows go up before he even has a chance to stop that. "Thought she was still dating Byers.”

Honestly, he’s a little surprised.

"Yeah, she is." Steve says, shrugging again, then sighing. "The last time she was over was last October."

But that’s a _real_ surprise. Robin was saying Steve had no game, but Billy didn’t realize it was that bad. He lets out a low whistle. “Jeez, you gotta get laid, Harrington.”

Steve twirls a wooden spoon in his hand-- easily, mindlessly, _gracefully--_ and smacks Billy in the chest with a dull _thwack_ of a sound. Then he uses it to stir the pasta around in the pot.

"Dick," he says. "Get the half and half out of the fridge."

Billy does as he’s told, only passing it to Steve after he’s stolen another long sip of wine.

“You knew that about me when you brought me inside. Now, you’re stuck with me.”

Steve shudders, but Billy gets the astounding feeling that it's all for show. "I _know._ It's _awful."_

On the radio, the DJ clicks on with a low _we're kicking it back old school_ , and then there's a soft funky pluck of guitar and a louder rush of horns. _Earth, Wind, and Fire._ Steve smiles.

"My mom loves this stupid song," he says, but he's grinning and bobbing along as he pours in the half and half, the sauce turning a pale creme color before he adds some sauce from a can and it turns a dull pink.

He might be able to cook, if the smell is anything to judge, but he definitely can't _dance._ He's all gangly limbs and goofy smiles.

It doesn’t exactly stop Billy from _watching_ him, though. He snags his own glass of wine, giving himself a generous pour, and then hops up on the counter. A different spot than he saw Robin sit -- a little closer to where Steve is hovering by the stove. The moment is -- nice. For the first time in a while, Billy feels relaxed. Easy. Like he doesn’t always have to be on high alert, like his life isn’t made of one big crisis after another.

"You have _zero_ rhythm," he tells Steve.

"Bullshit," Steve scoffs and does a dumb-- _adorable_ \-- little spin, holding the wooden spoon up like a mic, a truly _terrible_ falsetto coming out of his mouth as he laughs. " _Say do you remember, dancing in September?_ C'mon. It's a classic."

Billy _laughs_. He hasn’t had nearly enough to drink, but it’s like he feels the buzz of it anyway, as he raises his eyebrows and says, “Do you need _lessons_ , Harrington? Because I’ll have you know, I’m a _great_ teacher.”

"What, _exactly,_ is so wrong with my dancing?" Steve turns the heat down on the sauce, using a dish towel to pluck up the pot so he can drain the noodles in the sink, sprinkling them with olive oil before turning to Billy, towel over his shoulder, hands on his hips. "Well?"

Billy slides off the counter. He tips his head back and downs the rest of his -- very full -- glass of wine.

“Just don’t stab me,” he warns, and then steps in close. He’s not stupid, though -- he keeps _some_ space between them -- though he does settle his hands on Steve’s hips. “These hips are going _everywhere_ , pretty boy. Slow it down a little, rock with it.”

As Billy talks, he moves too. Dancing has always been easy, just giving himself over to the beat. He sways and rocks, and coaxes Steve to do the same with little touches of his hands.

Steve is stiff, at first. Billy can see it in his shoulders, feel it in his hips.

But then he's blinking, his hands fluttering for a second before landing on Billy's arms, just above the crook of his elbow, twitching like he doesn't know what to do with them. Then, he's following Billy's lead, that little pinch between his brows, like he's _really_ concentrating.

After a moment, their rhythm matches the beat of the song. Billy can feel Steve's fingers drumming along on his left arm.

"This doesn't feel that different," he says, feet shuffling a little.

“It’s more contained. Way better to look at,” Billy says. “Trust me.”

Once they build up a little bit more of a rhythm, Billy pulls back a bit, just to tug Steve into a spin. Steve trips a little but laughs, stumbling through another twist under Billy's arm, clutching at Billy's hand.

"Where'd _you_ learn to dance?" he asks as they sway back into a steady rock, Steve's right hand still in his.

“I used to sneak into clubs with my friends back in Cali,” Billy says, thinking back on it for a moment. The dancing was a little different, but in the end it’s all about the same. “Alright, now spin me, huh? Can’t let you have all the fun.”

Steve does, just as the song starts to peter out, blending into the next. Michael Jackson, before _Thriller,_ he thinks.

Steve leads him around and then reels him back in with a little jerk, almost enough to have Billy stepping on his toes.

"Sorry," Steve says, righting them a bit, Michael Jackson crooning _get closer_. "You know, I can foxtrot. But I guess this isn't the same."

“See, now _that_ I can’t do.”

 _Thriller’s_ a little more Billy’s speed, but this track isn't bad-- but it’s also harder to dance to without actually getting very up close and personal with Steve. But Billy makes do. He moves faster, and bends more, moving with the curves of the song. It’s weirdly easy, to dance around Steve’s kitchen with him, just enjoying the moment for what it is -- a brief period of levity.

Steve follows his movement pretty easily. He seems to be a pretty fast learner, at least in this, with the sway of bodies. Or maybe Billy really is a good teacher.

"How did you dance in California?" Steve asks.

“Dirtier than this, that’s for sure,” Billy says, with a waggle of his tongue.

Steve's nose wrinkles up, but he's grinning a little, too. "What, no room for Jesus in California?"

Billy moves his hips, just a little bit more. “Definitely no room for Jesus. Satan, maybe.”

Steve barks out a little laugh. "How close did you have to _be_?"

Billy laughs too. “It was a _club_ , Harrington.” And then, just for show, Billy gets his hands on Harrington and spins him, yanking him close by the hips, until Steve’s back is flush up against Billy’s chest. It’s warm and close and it makes Billy’s stomach _twist_ , but it’s fun, too. “About this close. Approximately.”

" _Oh,"_ Steve breathes, hands reflexively going for Billy's wrists, the back of his neck red as his breath seems to catch somewhere in his chest. "You danced like _this_?"

He almost sounds _outraged,_ but maybe a little _curious._ It's kind of _cute_.

Billy’s probably going to die, right here in the Harrington kitchen.

“What, no one in small town Indiana dances like _this_?” Billy says, rocking with Steve one way, then the next. Smooth, fluid. It’s fun, getting Steve all flustered, his hackles up -- just like old times. “Naw, that can’t be the case. I’ve _been_ to Kelly Culpepper’s parties.”

Steve twists a little, those big eyes narrowed in a glare, but he's not _pulling away_. " _I_ don't dance like this at parties."

“Oh, I know,” Billy says. He grins, makes a real big show of it, too.

And he doesn’t really, either. Not in Indiana. Not with chicks. Sure, he’ll let hot girls grind up on him, he’ll get laid and all, but it’s not the _same_. It doesn’t bring with it the same rush, the same weight. Doesn’t ever leave Billy feeling the same.

Steve's grip tightens a little on his wrists. "But _everybody_ dances like this in California?"

“No,” Billy says, barking out a laugh. He would pull away, but Steve’s holding him tight. He doesn’t want to overstay his welcome, here in Steve’s space. “Not everybody. Just at the clubs I went to.”

"Makes sense as to why you have _no_ personal boundaries," Steve says, and then lets him go, stepping away toward the stove.

Billy pulls back easy, because it’s what he’s supposed to do. It’s not what he _wants_ to do, but Billy’s trying to learn how to not always do what he wants.

“Aw, I’m hurt, Harrington.”

"I sincerely doubt that," Steve says, stirring the sauce around and then grabbing a spoon and giving it a little taste. "I think this needs more salt."

“Here, lemme try,” Billy says. He presses back into Steve's space, behind his shoulder, grabbing the spoon by way of grabbing Steve's hand. He licks. Then, hums, thoughtful. “More salt.”

Steve blinks at him a few times, his hand still caught in Billy's, eyes darting-- seeming subconsciously-- to Billy's mouth, and then quickly back up. His throat works and his ears are pink, but his voice is level.

"See? No personal boundaries."

Billy grins, wide as can be, and retreats. He hops back up on the counter, and pours himself another glass of wine. “Hey, at least I’m a known quantity, Harrington. No secrets, here.”

Steve huffs, reaching for the salt and adding it to the sauce with a quick stir. "You can't have _no_ secrets. That'd be boring."

Billy thinks for a moment, of all of the things Steve doesn’t know about him. All the secrets in little boxes that he has.

“Maybe I’ve got a couple,” Billy says.

"Ooh," Steve's shoulders do this dumb little shimmy, his brows up. "A _couple_ secrets. The _scandal_."

Billy kicks at him, laughing. “Nah, really though, I’m mostly an open book, pretty boy.”

"Okay," Steve nods, mouth conveying the shrug his shoulders don't. "Why do you _insist_ on calling me pretty boy? Or Harrington _?_ You _do_ know my name, right?"

“What, you want me to call you _Steve_ , just like everybody else?”

"Um, _yeah?"_ Steve frowns down at the sauce pan, stirring. "Friends usually call each other by their names."

There’s something that warms inside him with the idea that Steve thinks that they’re _friends_. That he’s apparently forgotten or forgiven enough of the shit between them to look past it toward something new. There’s also something there that Billy aches to be _more_. He doesn’t _want_ to be friends with Steve Harrington -- he never has.

But Billy doesn’t always get what he wants. And he needs to learn to be happy with what he’s got, because it’s more than he ever thought possible.

Billy just shrugs. “I’ll think on it.”

"Of course you will," Steve says, dry, but not with any bite, and then clicks off the burner. "Grab some bowls. Grub's on."

***

By the time midnight hits, Steve’s fading. Billy’s watching him from over the beer he’s been nursing for the last hour. He doesn’t want to get drunk, and he does understand (despite how much he keeps glaring) all of Robin’s teasing; he’s smaller than before, much more of a lightweight. Or he might be -- he doesn’t know. Hasn’t wanted to really test it, yet. Besides, being on ‘shift’ isn’t exactly the right opportunity.

Joyce and Will and Jonathan and El all left that afternoon, Joyce folding a piece of paper with an address and a phone number into Steve's hand before they departed. Max and Dustin had come around after school to see them, but had to leave not long after. It’s just Steve and Robin and Billy left, all sitting around the kitchen table, beer and an abandoned Monopoly board in front of them.

“How about truth or dare?” Billy asks, tonguing his lips.

Robin rolls her eyes. " _Seriously?"_

“Got any better ideas?”

Billy still doesn’t _like_ her, mostly because she doesn’t seem to like _him_ \-- but the animosity he felt before toward her evaporated immediately upon learning she was into girls. She’s a kindred spirit -- _and_ she’s not trying to hook up with Steve. Billy appreciates both of those things.

Robin presses a cheek to her palm, elbow on the table, free hand drumming a staccato against the wood. "Might as well suggest spin the bottle or seven minutes in heaven, too."

Steve grins a little. "Truth or dare doesn't sound _that_ bad."

“Oh, we can play spin the bottle,” Billy says. “Not sure you’d like your chances, though, sweetheart.”

Robin smiles, a little mean, a little too wide. "Or maybe you like yours too _much_ \--"

"Guys," Steve cuts her off, rubbing at his eyes. "Could you, like, I dunno, _not_? Truth or dare. C'mon."

“Jesus,” Billy breathes out. “I dare you to go to fucking _bed_ , Harrington.”

" _Hey,"_ he sits up, frowning. "I'm good. Not that tired."

“Dude, you said that _through_ a yawn,” Robin says. She’s not wrong.

“You gonna wuss out on your dare, pretty boy?” Billy asks.

Sure, he could call Steve by his _name_ like Steve wants him to -- but it also feels too close. Like Billy would be giving too much of himself away with Steve’s name on his lips all that often. No, this way, with nicknames and last names, Billy keeps at least a modicum of privacy.

It’s not like it’s a _crush_ , even, he tells himself. No matter what Max says. Steve’s just Steve, and Billy’s always liked the look of him. Now that he actually knows the guy? Well, Billy’s got more important things going on in his life, right?

Steve rolls his eyes _hard_. Billy's surprised he doesn't pull something.

"Jesus, fine, but if I wake up and find out you've killed each other, I'm gonna lose my shit."

He pushes up from the table, scrubbing a hand through Robin's messy hair on his way by. He laughs as she smacks at him, flipping her off over his shoulder as he goes.

It's only when he's gone that Robin turns back to Billy. "So, Hargrove. Truth or dare?"

Billy tips the remainder of his beer into his mouth. “What, you _actually_ want to play?” When she levels him with a look, he just shrugs, rolling his shoulders as he leans back in his chair. “Dare.”

Robin clicks her tongue. "I dare you to shotgun another beer."

“What, are you serious?” With one finger, Robin pushes another beer toward him, smiling pleasantly in a way that isn’t pleasant at all. “Alright, but if I crash, you have to stay up all alone. And you get to tell Harrington in the morning.”

The beer is cold as it goes down his throat. He’s not as quick as he used to be, but he does it fast, licking his lips as he finishes.

“Truth or dare?” Billy says, crunching the can up in his hand.

"Truth," she says, lips twitching up at one side.

“Steve’s a loser. Why hang out with him all the time? Don’t have any other friends?”

"That's the thing: Steve _seems_ like a loser," Robin says. "He's actually a pretty cool guy, even if he is a little bit of a dumbass."

Billy rolls his eyes. “He’s the biggest dumbass, that’s for sure.” He snags a chip out of a bowl on the table and crunches down. “Dare me.”

Robin grins brightly and nudges another beer across the table at him. When he stares, first at the can, then at her, she just keeps smiling.

"Go on."

Billy doesn’t know what game she’s playing, until he’s on beer number five. It’s only as he gets up to piss that he realizes just how drunk he is. He stumbles his way there and back, and flops back down in his seat.

“It’s your turn,” Robin says, with a smile.

“Uh,” Billy says, thinking about the beers in the fridge, at the prospect of Robin making him down _another_. His head spins a little. He doesn’t want to actually pass out, with the threat of the Russians at the back of his head. He sucks it up and says, “Fine, truth.”

It’s a mistake.

Robin leans forward, chin on her palm, eyes wicked with intent. "How long have you had the hots for Steve Harrington?"

In Billy’s head, everything goes quiet.

“Uh,” he says, trying to bite down on the immediate panic he feels. It’s helped by the alcohol, but his stupidity is, too. “I don’t have the _hots_ for Steve Harrington,” Billy says stupidly, with absolutely the wrong tone.

He tried for incredulous, but ends up sounding closer to strangled.

Robin's brows shoot up. "I'm sorry, is this game called _lie_ or dare? Cuz, gotta say, you're a shitty liar."

“ _You’re_ a shitty liar,” Billy says as he points at her, head swimming, mouth a little numb. It doesn’t even make sense, but the weight of the real truth sits heavy on his tongue, like it’s just waiting for the right moment to escape. He has to say _something_.

"Okay, fine," Robin says holding her hands out. "How long have you wanted to bang him?"

When Billy's nose scrunches up and his fingers curl tight over the table, Robin laughs. She's an _asshole_ , Billy realizes.

"Too crude?" she asks. "Fuck him? Make sweet, sweet love to him? Hold his hand? Shove him against a wall and--?"

Billy’s up and halfway across and over the kitchen table before he even realizes it, hand over her mouth, preventing anything fucking _else_ from getting out. The chip bowl goes scattering, sending chips all over the floor. The beer cans clatter as they hit tile, thrown out of the way from the force of Billy throwing himself across mahogany. His heart is pounding and his face feels like it’s on fire, whole body threatening to burst into sympathetic flame.

“A year,” Billy says. Quick, to get it over with. A band-aid ripping off.

Her shoulders slump as she peers up at him from behind the press of his palm to her mouth. He thinks he can feel her smile, but her eyes go a little _soft._

Carefully, she wraps a hand around Billy's wrist and pulls him away.

"That _sucks_ , dude."

He lets her pull his hand away. Unfortunately, he's still lying on his belly, sprawled on the kitchen table.

“It's barely anything,” Billy says. He promises it to himself. “He's just hot.”

"Yeah," Robin says, and even though she sounds dubious, she shrugs. "I get that."

“ _You_ don't think he's hot, though,” Billy says. He rests his chin on his forearm. “Thought you did, at first.”

Robin's smile is a little crooked when she gives it. "I kinda figured."

“You're kinda a _bitch_ ,” Billy says. Then, he yawns. “I kinda like that.”

"You're a bit of a dick," Robin says, patting his shoulder. "I kinda dig _that_. But, like, I'd really prefer if you didn't beat my friend's face in, again."

“Yeah, _really_ not trying to beat his face in, babe,” Billy says, words starting to slur even to his own ears.

Robin hums. "You should say _dare_."

Billy fucking _giggles_. “Dare."

"I _dare_ you to--"

Someone clears their throat.

Billy shouldn't be surprised to see that it's Steve, in boxers and that same ratty gym shirt, because he's the only other person in the house. But he is surprised, at least a little, in a delighted sort of way. He grins as Steve crosses his arms with a frown.

"Uh oh," Robin whispers. "I think we're in trouble."

"I dare you to clean up my fucking dining room," Steve says to her, padding over. "C'mon, big guy. Pretty sure it's well past your bedtime."

“We’re in the _middle_ of a game,” Billy says, but he's still flushed from before. “You're supposed to be _asleep_.”

"I'm on high alert," Steve says with a shrug, getting a hand on Billy's shoulder and guiding him up off the table. "The beer cans hitting the floor woke me up."

“Blame _her_ ,” Billy says. He wobbles, but lets Steve get him upright.

“Yeah, no. That was all you, bucko. Overdramatic, over one little truth, much? I mean, it's just--”

Billy springs forward, hand finding her mouth again.

“Don't be a _bitch_ ,” he hisses.

Steve frowns, peeling Billy's hand back with a firm grip on his wrist, and Robin waggles her brows. "Seriously, you're both impossible," he says.

“ _You're impossible,”_ Billy says. Then, he snorts. “I mean, look at your hair. You _woke up_ like that?”

It's perfect.

"Yeah?" Steve tilts his head.

Totally clueless. Totally missing the thread.

Robin snorts. Her eyes are on Steve when she says, "Told you. Total dumbass."

Billy lets himself slump against Steve’s side, since the guy was so kind to pry him off the table in the first place. If Steve wants him standing, then he’s gonna have to bear the brunt of it; Billy’s too far gone.

“Think I’m a _lightweight_ ,” he says idly, offended on his own behalf.

"Yeah, big guy," Steve says. "I think so, too."

And then he's getting Billy's arm over his shoulders and dragging him to his feet.

After that, Billy zones out for a bit. He thinks he hears Robin saying something about how Steve should _tuck him in_ , but that feels a little too much like a dream. He imagines it, for a little while, the hot press of Steve’s hands folding Billy up into a warm bed. Dreams shift him into reality, though, when Billy opens his eyes to Steve tugging Billy’s shirt off with some amount of difficulty. He’s grumbling to himself, under his breath, and Billy wants nothing more than to dip in and kiss the complaint right off his lips.

“Cute when you’re mad,” Billy slurs with a grin.

He notices he’s in a bed, sweatpants covered legs already under the covers.

"And you're a handful when you're drunk," Steve says, finally managing to get Billy's head through the shirt and tossing it aside with a huff, shoving Billy back down against the pillows. "Dunno what Robin was thinking."

Billy goes where Steve’s hands put him, a rush of heat flooding to his gut.

“She’s _smart_ ,” Billy says. “Such a bitch, but so goddamn smart. Fucking _plyed_ me with booze, pretty boy, just to get me to _talk_.”

"Yeah?" Steve grins a little. "She tricked you, huh?"

“A _devious_ little bitch,” Billy says with a laugh.

Steve snorts. "You say _bitch_ like it's a fucking petname."

“What, it’s _not_?”

Oh shit, it kind of _is_. Honestly, Billy fucking respects her game. Knocking him with a kind of truth serum to get him to talk? It’s not bad. Nothing will come of it, but it’s not bad. And it’s only fair, really. He knows one of her secrets, and now she knows one of his.

"Not _generally_ ," Steve says, pulling the blankets up over his shoulders, sitting at the edge of the bed and tucking the edges of the comforter in around him. "But you do tend to do what you want."

“Sometimes,” Billy says, a yawn cutting off his words. “Got _some_ self restraint, you know.”

The world is fuzzy at the edges, and so is Steve. It makes him even softer than normal: cozy, in a way that makes Billy want to pull him down into bed with him.

"Don't think I've seen that," Steve says, and he's _obviously_ teasing him, but it also sounds like he's a little bit serious _._ "Warm enough?"

“I’d be warmer if I wasn’t alone,” Billy says, lips wide in a grin.

Steve smoothes the blanket out over him, worrying his lower lip for a second. "Are you lonely?" he asks, almost tentative. "I can keep you company until you pass out."

And jesus, it would be just what Billy wanted, if the cruel bite of truth didn’t hurt so much. _Are you lonely?_ he thinks at himself. He imagines how he felt, before, with that thing in his head. He was never alone, never without. Now, there’s an empty space where He was, void and dark, leaving Billy all alone.

“Nurse Harrington,” Billy says after a hum, as he scoots over on the bed to make more space for Steve. He doesn’t want to say _yes_ , that right now, he’s more lonely than he’s ever felt before.

Steve hesitates a little and then twists his legs up onto the bed. He steals a pillow and props his head up with it.

For a moment, they just lay in the quiet, lit by the lamp on the bedside table, the room a wash of a dull gold. Steve's on top of the covers instead of under them, his fingers laced over his stomach, his eyes upward. He looks relaxed, except for the way he keeps biting at his lower lip.

"I get it," Steve says, eventually, softly. "I mean, maybe I don't _totally_ get it, but… lonely sucks."

“Yeah,” Billy breathes out.

The room is dark, and Steve is a warm weight next to him, even if it would be better if he was under the blankets, pressed up against Billy’s body. He aches with the desire for that -- it’s been _so long_ \-- but he lets his eyes fall closed anyway, just letting himself appreciate what he’s got.

Steve rolls over onto his side, pillowing his arm under his head. Billy can feel him move. Feels the bed dip and lean.

"Do you ever get tired of it?" Steve asks in a hush. "Like, just pissed off about it?"

Billy laughs into the darkness, quiet and a little sad. “Used to try and fuck moms. That count?”

"Yeah, I think that counts." Steve says, and Billy can hear his smile. "You over that phase?"

“Didn’t really work out for me last time, did it?”

Steve hums. His hand twitches and then slides out. Finds Billy's wrist and gives it a gentle squeeze.

Comfort. He's offering comfort.

"I, uh… I break stuff, sometimes." Steve admits quiet. "When it gets too much or I get-- I dunno, mad about it? Threw my dad's crystal decanter across the room once, when I was sixteen. He didn't even notice it was missing when he came back."

Billy _wants_ to open his eyes, he does. But he can’t. He’s _tired_ and the thought of looking at Steve right now, of meeting those big brown eyes with his own -- it’s a little too much.

Instead, he offers a smile. “King Steve,” he breathes out, like an apology. Like a _thank you_ for sharing. “Should try sleeping with moms instead.”

"I don't wanna sleep with moms," Steve says, and squeezes at his wrist again before letting go; Billy misses the weight, feels the absence like a severed limb. "Besides, I'm sleeping with you, right now."

Billy shifts, so his wrist presses up against Steve’s side, seeking contact wherever he can get it, even if it’s against the cotton of Steve’s shirt.

He breathes out, lazy smile on his face, as consciousness slips further and further away.

“Yeah, you are,” Billy says.

After that, feeling less lonely and considerably warmer, sleep finally overtakes him.


	7. VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mid-crisis is the perfect time for a moment of self-discovery.

There’s light streaming in on the wrong side of Steve’s face when he wakes up. His bedroom only marginally gets the morning light -- which is one of Steve’s favorite features about it. He can sleep pretty late in the mornings without even realizing the time. Now, though, there’s a ray of light streaming directly in his eyes.

He blinks himself awake, feeling startled, feeling _warm_. He shifts -- or tries to, anyway. It’s hard, with warm arms around him, with a face pressed into the crook of his neck and the solid line of a body up against his side.

_Billy_ , Steve thinks. He fell asleep next to Billy Hargrove.

Billy -- thank god -- seems pretty firmly still asleep. His breathing is even and steady, and it tickles Steve’s neck with every exhale.

He hadn't meant to fall asleep here. In fact, he'd meant to go back downstairs and stay up with Robin. But Billy had looked soft and lonely and cold, and Steve has _heard_ Dustin call Steve a mother hen on more than one occasion.

He just hadn't wanted Billy to be alone.

And, to be honest, Steve hadn't wanted to be alone, either.

Shifting, Steve tries to pull free of Billy's grip. Tries to ease out from under his arm before Billy can wake up and get mad.

Billy doesn’t startle, though. But he does mumble something soft and sleepy against the sensitive skin of Steve’s neck. His grip loosens a little bit, but he shuffles just that much closer. He’s got a leg swung over Steve, effectively spooning him from the side. If Steve were under the covers, he’d imagine that they would be _very_ up close and personal, legs all twisted into knots together underneath the blankets.

Steve _shudders_.

He remembers yesterday in the kitchen; the heat of Billy's hands on his hips, of his chest to his back, Billy’s voice in his ear. He thinks it’s got _nothing_ on this.

He doesn't really understand it, though. How warm he feels, like there are coals turning over in his chest, a tightness in his throat like he’s trying to swallow something whole. He just knows he wants to squirm. Restless and waiting for _something_.

He curls a hand around Billy's wrist, gentle, and tries to pull himself loose.

Billy lets him go. Gradually. Granted, Steve is slow with it, desperately not wanting to jostle Billy awake. He doesn’t want to face it, doesn’t want to have to look at Billy’s eyes going all angry or betrayed that Steve stayed too long, that Steve let him sleep so close. By the time he’s out, feet on the carpet, Billy has moved to occupy the space Steve left, seeking the residual heat like a moth to flame.

Steve lets out a little breath, scrubbing a hand through his hair. He pushes to his feet and turns to look back at Billy.

He's got his face pressed into Steve's pillow. His body curled over the warm spot Steve's body left. He looks _small_ , or as small as Billy can look, even skinny as he is now. He’ll always be big, larger than life. His lashes are fanned out, so dark against his cheeks. His lips parted; pink.

Steve tugs the blankets back up over Billy's shoulders and then leaves the room on quiet feet.

Downstairs, he finds Robin on the counter in the kitchen, nursing a cup of coffee, percolator noisily brewing up a new batch. He offers her a smile as she watches him gather a mug from the cabinet, quiet as can be. As he pours himself a cup, she keeps _watching_.

"What?" he finally asks.

“I walked past the guest room at about 5am, just doing some _rounds_. Looked pretty cozy in there,” she says.

Steve knows he goes red in the face. Can feel how the heat floods up under his skin.

"We were talking," Steve says. "I fell asleep."

“Talking _and_ cuddling,” Robin says. “Was that before or after the falling asleep?”

" _After_ ," Steve says, feels something in him rise up, defensive; that same thing he doesn't understand inside of himself twisting up. "It's not a big deal."

Robin’s eyebrows go up. She grins, wide and cheshire, looking _just_ like Billy does when he’s feeling devious. “Okay, it’s _definitely_ a big deal if you have to say it's not a big deal.”

"Drop it," Steve says, turning his focus back to his coffee, pulling out the half and half from the fridge.

But Robin’s as bad as Billy when she’s tossed a bone as juicy as this one.

“What’s up, dingus? Let’s talk about it.” At least she drops the _delighted_ tone and hedges more toward friendly. Concerned, even.

"It's nothing," Steve says, chewing on the inside of his cheek. "Just drop it, okay?"

“Bud, you’ve clearly got something on your chest.”

Steve flinches. Spills coffee over his fingers and hisses.

There's something knotted in his chest. Something tight. Constricting. He feels short of breath.

He doesn't _understand_.

" _Drop it_ , Rob," he snaps, jerking into motion, moving over to the sink to dump out his coffee, suddenly _nauseous_.

“Hey,” she says, sliding down off the counter to come stand next to him at the sink. She doesn’t hug him, because they don’t really _do_ that, but she does put a hand on his shoulder and rubs a little. “It’s okay, dingus. You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. But maybe I should put your coffee in a sippy-cup for you.”

Steve barks out a laugh. Strained and short.

"Shut the fuck up," Steve says, with no bite.

“He’s hot, I mean, for a guy. I don’t blame you.”

" _Rob,"_ Steve says, and _oh, god,_ it feels like his goddamn throat is closing up; his hands are shaking. "He's not-- that's _not_ \-- _oh, fuck_."

He sinks to a crouch by the counter. Presses his forehead to the wood of the lower cabinets. Squeezes his eyes shut and just tries to breathe.

“Oh, shit,” he hears, from a very long way away. “Hey, it’s okay, Steve,” Robin says, he thinks, and then there’s a hand on the center of his back, rubbing soothing circles over his shoulder blades. “It’s okay.”

Steve shakes his head. He's not even sure what he's saying _no_ to.

“It’s okay, Steve,” she says again. She eases him from his unsteady crouch to something close to sitting and plops down next to him, leaning heavy up against his side. A steady weight. An anchor. “Topic buried. Totally not even a thing.”

Steve nods, head bobbing and throat working. "Okay," he rasps.

“Okay,” Robin repeats.

She keeps rubbing circles on his back, not pressing, not cajoling like normal. Just sitting with him, trying to keep him calm.

When his breathing evens out, she just leans heavier against his side and says, “Do you want another cup of coffee?”

"I think I'd prefer whiskey," he says, leaning his head back against the cabinets, carefully opening his eyes.

Like he's worried the entire world around him will be suddenly and totally different.

It isn't.

“How about an irish whiskey?” she aks.

She doesn’t even wait for an answer. She just pushes up from the floor and putters around his kitchen like she lives there, until she’s pressing another mug into his hands.

“Drink up, idiot.”

He takes a heavy pull once it's in his hands. Coughs when _too much_ whiskey scalds down his throat.

"Jesus, Rob," he sputters. "Are you _actively_ trying to kill me, today?"

“I’m taking care of you,” she says, and it sounds almost like an apology.

The coffee is thick with alcohol, but it’s also thick with cream and sugar. Once Steve swallows through the unexpected taste of _alcohol_ and the burn in his throat, he thinks it’s kind of nice.

They sit there, quiet as Steve drinks. It's way too early for alcohol, but it stops his fingers from trembling.

"Thanks," he says, eventually.

This isn’t exactly what he thought he’d be freaking out about, given that there are Russians out there, currently and actively looking for Steve’s houseguest. Maybe it’s that, though, Steve thinks. His brain choosing to panic over something else, while ignoring the main problem, instead.

“Sorry for badgering you,” Robin says, after a little while. “We can talk if you want. Offer’s always open. _Or_ we can talk about how you have to go to work today.”

Steve groans, but grasps onto the topic change like a lifeline. "I don't wanna deal with fucking _Keith."_

“I’m not covering for you _again_ ,” she says. “I need to _sleep_. And shower. And sleep some more.”

"Okay, _okay,"_ Steve says, sipping a bit more from the way he’s hugging himself. "Fine."

“The kids will come to your rescue after school’s over. Just be glad you’re not me, who has to deal with Billy when he wakes up.”

"Yeah," Steve's nose scrunches up, an itch at the back of his head, like he's supposed to be thinking about something important. "Yeah, at least I don't have to deal with that."

He ignores it.

***

Keith, as usual, is an obnoxious little fuck.

The second Steve walks in the door, shrugging his vest on, Keith is _on him_ \-- berating him for being a no-show on Friday, telling him that being sick isn’t a reason to bail on his responsibilities.

Steve wants to laugh in his ratty face. Wants to tell him that he understands _nothing_ of responsibilities. Wants to tell him to fuck off and just walk out.

He only doesn’t because he’s got a regular life outside of all the crazy that seems to take over once in a blue moon. A regular life that requires a regular job because Steve’s regular academic career tanked and he couldn’t get into college.

Steve’s regular. Painfully regular, outside of the occasional apocalypse.

He ends up on _rewind_ duty for most of the day. There’s a pile up of videos, like Keith was just waiting for him to get back.

The worst part about rewind duty is that it takes literally zero brainpower, which means Steve is prone to totally zoning out and falling into his head. But he doesn’t particularly _want_ to be in his head today, because his head is confusing and it keeps reminding him (and sending spikes of unnecessary panic down his spine) that he woke up not just next to Billy Hargrove, but cuddled against him and comfortable, which is so far out of left field that it’s in an entirely different ballpark.

So, after a few disastrous attempts to _actually_ think about it, all of which ended in his heart skittering across the countertop and his blood pressure spiking, he decided to just watch customers. Make up stories in his head about what they’re doing with the rest of their day, who they’re going to be watching the movies with. It’s not _fun_ , but it’s way better than the alternative.

He sticks a copy of _The_ _Godfather_ into the rewinder and sweeps the store with his eyes. The last person he came up with a story for was Sally O’Brien, who was a year or two behind Steve in school, who now Steve’s decided is secretly into slasher films and is having a movie marathon while her parents attend a swingers party. But Steve can’t spot her blonde hair amongst the shelves anymore -- he just sees a tall guy who he doesn’t know, lingering around the new releases, browsing.

For a hot minute, Steve pretends he's some royalty from another country, hiding out in the anonymity that small town Hawkins offers. Entertains the idea of something as boringly exciting as maybe ringing up some semi- famous guy at the counter, who is browsing movies in Indiana only because no one will recognize him.

But then the guy turns, looks over his shoulder, and Steve catches sight of his profile. It's _familiar_.

It takes a second to really register in his head. By the time it does, his shoulders are already drawn up and stiff; his breath already stalled in his throat.

He feels like he’s being paranoid.

But that guy? _Definitely_ one of the Russians at the underground Starcourt base.

No doubt about it.

Steve feels like he’s going to be sick.

From all outward appearances, the guy looks normal. All-American, even, in a denim jacket and worn blue jeans. His shirt, from what Steve can tell while stealing a glance that doesn’t look too obvious, is _flannel_. If Steve didn’t know him, he’d expect some sort of drawl out of that mouth, something lazy and loose. But he does know.

He _doesn’t_ know what to do, though.

The rewinder spins to a stop. Numbly, dumbly, Steve swaps out that tape with another and presses start. Keeps himself looking busy, oblivious.

He keeps the guy in his periphery. Watches as he navigates the aisles, looking through the movies, and for a blinding moment Steve thinks he _is_ just being paranoid. That it's all just been too much-- the stress of the situation finally weighing him down enough for an almost complete mental break. Like he might start seeing Russians _everywhere._

But then the bell over the door rings and Max walks in with Lucas and Dustin, and the guy's focus narrows in on _her_.

Steve breaks into a cold sweat.

_Of course,_ he thinks. Of course they'd look at family if they lost their asset. _Of course_.

Steve is on his feet in an instant.

"Hey, welcome to Family Video, how can I help you today?"

He plasters on a friendly smile. Plastic.

Dustin squints at him and Lucas blinks.

"You guys looking for any of our New Releases?" he asks.

Max, thank fuck, is smart on the uptake. “Uh, yeah. We wanted to see if _The Goonies_ was back in stock? We checked yesterday, but that other guy said it was still out.”

"Let's go check our returns over at the counter," Steve says, gesturing them over with a swing of his head.

Keith, luckily, isn't anywhere nearby.

He’s probably in the back, reading comics. _God_ , what an asshole.

Steve guides the kids to the counter, to the stack of recently returned items. “Sorry, guys. It’s been busy today. Haven’t had a chance to go through the stock. Got a lot of customers who don’t normally come in.”

He glances, gesturing with his eyes, at the guy. Dustin is a little too obvious about it, but he saves the bald look with a clean sweep of the store, making a bit of a show of elbowing Lucas and pointing out the cardboard cutout of a girl in a bikini by the front of the store.

Steve flips through the returns. Max is staring at him, intent, her fingers drumming on the counter.

Ironically enough, he finds a copy of _The Goonies_ near the bottom of the bin.

"Looks like we've got it," Steve smiles.

He goes through the motions of checking it out for them, taking the change Lucas passes over the countertop and ripping off a piece of receipt paper.

"Our printer has been on the fritz all day," he says, jotting a note down onto it, and sliding it over. "That's your return date. Thanks for stopping by Family Video."

Max takes the paper as Dustin snatches up the movie. Her eyes flit over it quickly-- _he's from the base-- leave NOW-- don't come to the house--_ and then she's forcing a smile and stuffing it into her pocket.

"Thanks," she says.

"Yeah, anytime." Steve says, relieved that he passed the message along. “Don’t forget: _be kind rewind_!” he says, as they turn away. Like a regular, annoyed and tired employee reminding people he doesn’t know to help him out.

After the kids leave the store, the bell above the door barely has a chance to stop ringing before the Russian is gone too, pushing open the door and leaving without even a glance behind him. More than likely, off following Max to see where she goes.

Steve tries not to hyperventilate.

It doesn’t go well.

He squats down behind the counter and shoves his fists against his eyesockets, breathing hard. The store is empty, now, so he has a momentary reprieve, just a second to try and catch his breath. It works out, actually, because when Keith wanders out from the back room, Steve’s still crouched, but his hands have migrated to covering his entire face.

“If you hurl on my floor, Harrington, you’re fired. Go home, if you’re still sick. I don’t want your germs!”

"Thanks," he croaks, and then he's leveraging himself over the counter and bolting out the door.

He can hear his heart _pounding_ in his fucking _ears_.

When he gets into his car, he _peels_ out of the lot. His tires squeal as he jerks the Bimmer around; he's pretty sure he leaves skid marks.

The drive home is a fucking _nightmare._

He's half a second from totally losing it the whole way, breathing heavy and clutching at the steering wheel. He probably shouldn't even be _driving_ , not with how his vision seems to keep _blurring_.

At his house, he staggers out of the car. Leaves the door open and the keys in the ignition. Stumbles in through the front door and heads straight for the walkie talkie on the kitchen counter.

"Steve--?"

"Shut up," he says, bile at the back of his throat as he yanks out the antenna with trembling fingers holds it up to his mouth. "Captain Knowhere, check in, right the fuck now."

There's static. Steve's heart sinks right to his feet. His gut clenches.

“Check _in_ ,” Steve says, again. And then again. And then _again_.

Until the radio sparks back to life.

“ _Chill out,”_ Comes the tinny, staticy sound of Dustin’s voice. “ _We’re here, we’re okay. We managed to lose him through the back of the general store.”_

Steve's knees buckle from right out underneath him. He slumps to the ground, cradling the radio close. He hears someone say his name again.

"Where are you?" he asks. " _Where are you, right now?"_

“ _Safe_ ,” Max says, over the radio. “ _Don’t want to say, just in case._ ”

_In case they’re listening_ , Steve thinks. It’s not out of the realm. It’s not like radios are a totally secure avenue of communication.

Billy sits down in front of Steve. Robin’s hovering to the side.

"Okay," Steve breathes, eyes on the way Billy's brows have drawn together. "Okay, you keep me updated. Am I clear?"

There's another pause. Another rush of static.

"Am I _clear_?" he snaps, radio clutched so tight he thinks he might break it.

"Yes-- _yes, you're clear. We'll let you know if anything changes."_

“I don’t like it,” Billy says, when Steve sets the radio down on the floor. Or, more accurately, when the radio clatters to the floor because Steve just lets it drop from numb fingers. “They’ll find a way into my _house_.”

Steve shakes his head, throat working and then working again. "I don't-- I don't, uh…"

_Fuck_ , he wants to radio them back. Wants to tell them to come _here_ , right _now,_ where he can keep an eye on them.

Can't think about them catching any of the kids-- Lucas, Max, Dustin, Mike-- and trying to grill them for information.

He remembers how much it _hurt._ How it seemed like it might _never stop._ How they _wouldn't believe him_ and kept _pushing_. How they beat him _unconscious._

He still gets _headaches_ sometimes.

And he _can't think_ about them getting their hands on the _kids_.

He scrambles, feels his stomach rebel, and rushes over to the trashcan. Bends over it and vomits, head pounding.

Robin’s there when he finishes, a hand on his back, rubbing smooth circles again. She presses a glass of cool water into his fingers, though his stomach churns at the thought of taking a sip.

“We’ll figure this out,” she promises. She sounds so _sure_ , so positive. He wishes he knew where she was drawing that strength from, because he sure could use some of that, now.

Steve pushes himself over to the counter and slumps against it, carefully sipping the water and swishing it around his mouth before spitting into the sink. "I thought he was there for me, but then Max walked in," Steve says. "He was tracking her."

"Who?" Robin asks.

"Some big fuckin'... Russian _prick._ From the base. I recognized him."

“Shit,” Robin breathes.

“Fuck,” Billy says, echoing the sentiment from nearby.

“Well, the good news is that they _don’t_ know Billy’s here, if they’re tailing Max,” Robin says. “And they won’t find anything with her, so she should be safe, right?”

"Right," Steve says, his voice rough, his throat burning. "Right. They might follow her, see if maybe she'll lead them to you, but she won't. They won't-- they won't touch her, not without a reason."

He thinks he's saying it to convince Billy. But also maybe himself.

“She’s a smart kid. She knows how to stay out of trouble,” Billy says with a nod, but he looks worried, too. Tense.

"Yeah," Steve breathes, sipping some more water.

Robin crosses her arms, wincing a little. "Did the guy recognize you?"

"No, I don't-- he didn't even look at me."

“That’s good,” Robin says. “Was he -- one of our _friends_?”

Steve shakes his head _firmly._

“Well _that’s_ good,” she says, sounding as relieved as Steve feels about that.

Billy, to his credit, doesn’t _ask_.

"I should, um. I'm gonna change." Steve tells them after a second.

Robin's nose wrinkles up. "Maybe shower, too. You smell like vomit."

Steve closes his eyes, huffing, a small smile finding its way to his face. "Thanks, Rob."

“No prob,” she says, and shoves him in the direction of the stairs.

***

"I should leave."

Steve very nearly drops his towel when he hears Billy's voice. Instead, he fists the knot at his waist a little tighter, and drags the one in his hair down over his face and stares at him.

Billy's on his bed, sitting at the edge, his elbows on his knees as he picks at his own fingers. He looks serious, in Steve's sweats and his old sweater, his jaw tight and his eyes burning blue even in the dimming like of dusk casting him in red and purples.

Steve frowns. "Don't be stupid."

“I'm not being stupid, I'm being practical. You and Robin are _both_ in danger with me here. If I'm gone, there will be no more Russians.”

"No, actually, I'm _pretty sure_ there would still be Russians," Steve says, a spike of irritation prickling in his chest. "And we'd still be in danger, even with you gone."

“No, because they don't know I'm here. You're harboring their _property_ , Steve,” Billy says, eyes set in a glare, tone fierce.

"You're not _property_ ," Steve snaps, towel bunching in his hands. "And they wouldn't _care._ If they found out you were here _at all_ \-- gone or _not_ \-- they wouldn't _care_ , they'd just assume we knew where you _went."_

Billy laughs, like that's _funny_. “I still am. If I leave _now_ , while they're too busy chasing after Max, they won't know. They won't find out.”

"You don't _know_ that," Steve stomps over to his dresser, and he feels childish, but this is _ridiculous;_ Billy's being _stupid._ "And where the fuck would you even _go,_ huh?"

“I don't know,” Billy says, throwing his hands up. “Literally _anywhere_ but here?”

"You're _safer_ here," Steve feels like yelling, like taking Billy by the shoulders and shaking him, but he slides his boxers up under his towel instead and then throws the damp thing at Billy's _face._ "You're not _leaving."_

“I'm trying to fucking _protect_ you,” Billy says, voice near a shout. He tosses the towel to the ground as he stands, pushing his way off the bed to stalk toward Steve, until he's pressing into Steve's space with a snarl. “Do you think I don't _notice_ how much you hate them? You flinch every time they're brought up. I'm trying to _save_ you, Steve. Just fucking _let me.”_

Steve goes very still and swallows. He stares at Billy's face, at his eyes; they're so blue. Blazing so bright it's like transmuted _flame._

Steve can feel the heat of him prickle across his skin.

"You already saved everyone once," he says, soft, and reaches out before he can stop himself, fingers curling loose around one of Billy's wrists. "You don't have to be _alone_ this time."

Billy laughs, but it's a strangled sort of thing. “I don't have a _choice_. They've got guns. You've got a _bat_.” He swallows and Steve watches his throat bob. “I've been alone my whole life, it's nothing new.”

"But you're not anymore, Billy." Steve says, hunting over his face, and there's something fluttering under the cage of his ribs as he reaches up and presses a tentative palm to Billy's cheek. "You're not alone anymore."

Under Steve's touch, Billy goes still. His skin is warm, like he runs a little hotter than he used to, and he holds himself like a statue. Solid and steady.

“I'm trying to keep you safe,” Billy says, after a beat, sounding defeated, like Steve's touch somehow took all the wind out of his sails.

"I know," Steve says, fingers trembling, heart racing; after the stress of today, he's surprised it still has the energy. "But you don't need to, okay? We can help you. We _want_ to help you. _I_ want to help you."

He sees Billy's eyes widen, just a little, and Steve knows that if he has to keep looking in that dizzying blue he'll get _lost._

Closing his eyes, he tips his head forward and rests his forehead to Billy's.

"Let me help. Please."

Billy tenses, but despite what Steve might've thought, he doesn't pull away. If anything, he leans in, actively pressing his head back against Steve's. A weight.

Billy’s so _close_. Steve can feel his breath, could see the pores on his skin if he were to open his eyes back up. He'd say he could hear Billy's heartbeat, but he can't hear anything over the pounding in his own ears. It's going double time; but so is Billy's, his pulse hammering away under the press of Steve's fingertips at his chest. Fast, like he's scared, like he's angry, like he's ready to _go_.

Despite that, Steve hears Billy sigh. A defeated noise, unsurprised and weary.

“Jesus, I'm a sucker.” He takes a breath, lets it out. “Fine.”

Steve smiles a little, the grip he's still got on one of Billy's wrists tightening in a soft squeeze. "Thank you."’

Billy’s breath hitches then, just a little bit. If Steve wasn’t so tuned in to him, so viciously _aware_ , he would’ve missed it entirely. Billy lingers for another moment, another heartbeat, and then he pulls back, putting a couple inches back between the two of them. He doesn’t, however, pull his hand away from Steve’s grip. Just his face.

When Steve opens his eyes, Billy’s looking at him with those wide, blue eyes.

“You should put some clothes on. Wouldn’t want Robin getting any ideas, huh?” Billy says.

Heat floods Steve in a terrible _rush_. Scalding him from the inside out. It makes the tips of his fingers prickle on pins and needles. He clears his throat, dropping his hands to his sides, and takes a step back, practically clattering into his open dresser drawer.

"Uh, right," he says, and he knows his face is red, and wonders if Billy's stupid super hearing can pick up on how hard his heart lurches in his chest. "Yeah, you're right."

It’s no secret that Steve is flustered. When he tugs a shirt on over his head, inside-out, Billy’s just raising an eyebrow at him, standing right where Steve left him, arms crossed and a half smile on his face. Billy doesn’t _say_ anything, though -- he just watches Steve, eyes trained as Steve curses and pulls off his shirt to turn it right-side-out and tug it back on again. He’s unnaturally quiet, enough so that Steve can’t help the sting of concern that says Billy’s just coming up with something biting to say.

Instead, Steve just gets: “Don’t worry, pretty boy. Your virtue is safe from me.”

The tone’s all wrong, though. It’s been twisted and warped from their earlier conversation. Because Billy sounds kind of sad, kind of regretful. Like maybe he really _was_ dead-set on leaving and now he has to re-arrange his whole plan.

Steve pulls on a pair of jeans, kicking a leg when that material sticks to his still damp skin, and zips them up, his back to Billy. His hair is still wet, water rolling down the back of his neck, getting his collar. His skin feels electric, with Billy standing there, watching him dress. Hypertensive. Like he can _feel_ pretty much _everything._ The way the cotton of his shirt clings at his back. The way he feels _warm_ everywhere.

"Didn't think I had anything but Russians to worry about," Steve says, trying to sound reassuringly calm, and he does up his fly and then swipes the piece of paper Joyce left him off the top of the dresser. "We should make a call."

“We probably should,” Billy says. He must be tired, because he turns and retreats toward Steve’s bed. First, sitting down in it -- then, allowing himself to fall to the side in a Hargrove sprawl. And then, flippant, like he’s trying to put some levity back into the moment: “You should be _way_ more worried about me than any Russians, anyway.”

Steve doesn’t know if Billy’s talking about his evil history and his superpowers -- or if he’s talking about Steve’s _virtue_ , still.

Steve frowns, standing there-- because Billy Hargrove is on his bed and Steve doesn't know what to _do_ with that. And doesn't want to think about what he _wants_ to do with that.

It makes his hands clammy.

" _Riiight_ ," Steve drolls. "You're so scary and intimidating, ooh."

Steve remembers Nancy on his bed, the way her dark hair had splayed out over his pillows. Billy’s hair would have, too, when it was long. Now, his head just dents Steve’s pillow, light blue sheets making Billy’s eyes look even bluer.

Billy puts on a vicious look, seemingly more confident now that there’s a little bit more distance between them. “I’m an _animal_ , Harrington. I was before, and the only thing those Russians did to me was make me _better_.” He pauses, and turns his eyes up playfully toward the ceiling, like he’s caught in thought. “I wonder what my _stamina’s_ like…”

Steve's throat feels dry.

The thought flashes, unbidden, of Billy Hargrove, sweaty and flush, against his crisp blue sheets. Of him panting, muscles flexing and straining under his skin. Like Nancy looked, like other girls before her -- but so _, so_ different.

There's a sharp tug below his navel. A low roll of heat boiling in his gut. He has to swallow down a sound that threatens to well up in the back of his throat.

His hands shake at his sides.

"Uh," he swallows again. "I'm sure it's… great."

Billy’s grin slips a little wider. “Jesus, Harrington, you look like you’re scared I’ll eat you whole. Weren’t you listening when I said your virtue was safe from me?”

But Billy looks like a wolf, hungry and dangerous, in Steve's bed. And Steve-- Steve _wants_.

"I generally tend to ignore everything that comes out of your mouth," Steve says.

Billy laughs, low and kind of delighted. The weight of their earlier conversation is clearly no longer weighing down his words, but Steve does wonder if this is a personal distraction for him. An attempt to distract himself, to distract _Steve_. Falling back into old roles because it’s easy, because it’s known. Because the world is falling down around them both, and what else are they supposed to do?

“That’s smart,” Billy says. He runs his tongue over his bottom lip and Steve can’t help but track the progress. “Real smart.”

Oh, no. Oh, _god_ , no. He _wants_.

His eyes dart to Billy's and then his feet are moving before he can stop himself, heading for the door. "I'm gonna call Joyce."

Billy’s laughter, a little strange and a little sour, follows him out the door.


	8. VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Billy thinks it was only a matter of time. Shit had to go down at some point, right? That's what happens when you get too comfortable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_see end note for chapter content warnings_ **

Steve hides, after that.

Billy didn’t _actively_ try to spook him or intimidate him, but it’s only natural for him to fall back into some more of his predatory of behaviors. What he _knows_ is how to antagonize, how to intimidate, especially through teasing and flirting. Using his advantages against others. It’s a defense mechanism, he _knows_ \-- it’s meant to disarm, but also to get Billy to stop dwelling on whatever it is he’s been dwelling on. It only half works this time, because now he’s just dwelling on _Steve_ , who somehow manages to make himself scarce in his own home.

“You’re such a loser,” Robin tells him, as he eats cold pizza in front of the fridge.

“Takes one to know one,” Billy grumbles.

It’s dark outside, already past nine, and the kitchen is dim. Still, that’s where they’re hanging out.

Robin hums. "Yeah, but I'm not brooding, am I? What did you even _do?_ Threaten his hair?”

Billy rolls his eyes. “I’m not a _monster_ ,” he says, despite still being on the fence about that actual fact. Then, he shrugs, stuffing the crust in his mouth. “I was just my usual charming self.”

Steve had made the call to Joyce, practically talking in code, and then bolted quickly after that. Robin's been mocking him ever since.

"Oh, because you're so _charming_ ," she says, leaning against the open fridge door, eyeing the way Billy's cheeks are stuffed full. "Catch me, I might swoon."

“You can fall, princess,” Billy says. He grabs another slice, then closes the fridge door (giving her just enough time to not actually fall flat on her face, because as much as she’s a bitch, Billy does kind of like her). “Look, maybe I went a little too hard on the teasing.”

“ _A little_?” Robin straightens out. “He’s like a little turtle, all hidden in his shell, now.”

“I didn’t do anything I don’t normally do,” Billy says. “It’s not my fault he’s being such a pussy about it.”

“Well, _that’s_ comforting,” Robin says, nose scrunching up. “Why are you such a dick, all the time--”

There’s a knock on the front door. A pounding, really. Then someone lays into the doorbell.

They both go running for it.

But then Billy falls back, thinking better of it, standing behind the door as Robin answers it -- ready.

On the stoop, Max stands panting, a hoodie pulled over her wild hair. She sees them and shoves inside, making her way over to Billy.

"Are you okay?" she asks. "They haven't shown up here, right?"

“I’m fine, are _you_ fine?” He wraps her up in a hug and relief floods him, knowing she’s okay. “Shit, how did you get here? Were you followed?”

"No, I don't think so," Max says, pressing her face to his chest. "I'm fine. I just wanted-- I was just worried."

“I was worried, too,” Billy says, putting a hand on top of her head. All the possibilities flash through his mind. “So fucking worried.”

Robin shuts and locks the door. "This is touching, really, but should you _be_ here--"

"Max," Steve says, eyes wide as he catches sight of her, stalled halfway down the stairs. "What are you _doing_ here?"

“I had to come,” Max says, fast. “Because I wanted to be able to say goodbye. If Billy has to go suddenly, if he has to run, I don’t want to not get the chance.”

Billy’s chest goes tight, so he hugs Max even tighter.

She squeezes him back.

On the stairs, Steve rubs over his face. "Okay. Okay, this is fine--"

Then, there's the sound of glass shattering.

Billy tenses. And then, it’s like the entire world focuses in on himself, everything, even sounds, in bright technicolor.

“In the study, one of the windows at the back of the house,” he says. “Two guys. Maybe three.”

Steve jerks into motion, taking the stairs in long strides and rushing over to the closet and yanking it open. He takes out a duffel bag and tosses it at Robin. She catches it with a grunt.

Then, he reaches in and pulls out his bat and the cattle prod. He holds the cattle prod out to Max.

"Robin, front pocket of that bag, there are keys for the gun safe." Steve says. "Go to the garage, grab them. Max, Billy-- you go with her."

“I’m not _leaving_ you here,” Billy says. “We all go, or I stay with you.”

“ _Jesus fucking--”_ Steve slams the closet door shut, and then starts shoving Robin down the hall. “Fine, let’s _go_ \--”

The lights cut out.

Steve stalls, his breath catching in his throat. Billy can hear it; can feel Max squeezing at his hand where she’s clutching at it.

It’s dark -- nothing illuminating the Harrington house. But Billy, who quickly flicks his gaze across his friends and across the space they’re standing in, can see. He can _see_ , he thinks, with the sharp bite of relief that comes from not feeling so fucked. That, at least, he can work with.

“Come _on_ ,” Billy says, pushing them all in the direction of the garage.

It’s the opposite direction to the study, which means they have a fighting chance. He shepherds them quickly through the darkness, keeping an ear out for people who are steadily advancing on them. Being quiet and quick is the key, he thinks, as he eases the garage door open and pushes them all in, closing the door behind him.

There’s a large crowbar sitting amongst the tools that Mr. Harrington keeps in the garage. Billy grabs it as Robin gets the safe open and secures the gun.

“ _Leave_ ,” Billy says, making his way back to the door back into the house. “I’ll find you.”

His heart is pounding in his chest, but he knows he needs to give these guys a chance to run.

A hand catches him by the elbow. Billy knows it’s Steve before he even turns to look at him.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” Steve asks, breathless, eyes wide on his face. “They’re here for _you_ , asshole.”

“I’m giving you guys a running start. I can _take them,_ Steve.”

“You don’t even know where we’re _going_ ,” Steve jerks at his arm. “I can help you. We can take them down together. Let me _help you_.”

Billy takes a breath. He swallows. Then, he turns to Robin and Max. “Stay here. Shoot anyone that comes through that door without announcing themselves first. Keep her _safe,”_ Billy adds, looking at Robin. Then, he gets his hand on the door, slowly turning the knob as he turns to Steve. “Stay behind me. I can see and you can’t. Chances are, they can probably see, too.”

Steve nods his head, fingers flexing over the end of the bat before he rotates it in a smooth swing. If it were any other situation, Billy would be _delightfully_ impressed.

Slowly, quietly, Billy eases the door to the garage back open. After he checks that the coast is clear, he slips back inside the house and pulls Steve along with him.

“Next room,” Billy says in a whisper. He can hear someone moving around in the room right next to them, but just one set of feet. Probably clearing the room to move on to the next.

Steve shuffles up close, pressing to Billy, voice a low whisper. “I’ll open the door, you stun him? Or do you want the other way around?”

Billy nods. “Yeah, sounds good. I’ll shout if I need backup.”

Billy’s heart doesn’t race as Steve gets into position and then flings open the door. His heart doesn’t race as he strides into the room, crowbar raised. It doesn’t race as the iron makes contact with the Russian agent’s skull.

It’s smooth. Easy. -- Until the guy stumbles back, stunned, into a table and knocks over a lamp with a hell of a crash.

“Get him while he’s down!” Billy hisses, at Steve, knowing there are more coming. He heads off, adrenaline racing, into the next room, to try to get to them first.

Steve’s quick to follow direction, to jump into action. He moves past Billy fluidly, heads into the room as Billy heads out. Billy hears a _thud_ and a _groan_.

The door in front of him bursts open. There’s two men, broad, in all black. One of them has one of those cattle prods sparking at his side. Billy lunges at him first.

Fighting in a hallway is cramped. It makes distance harder to gain. Luckily, Billy doesn’t _need_ distance to crack his fist against somebody’s jaw. He doesn’t need distance to grab someone by the hair and feel the heavy thunk of their face colliding against a wall. It’s two on one -- two heavily trained Russian agents -- and Billy is honest to god surprised that he has the upper hand.

There’s a brief, _brief_ moment of panic when the cattle prod, buzzing with electricity, hits his side. It hurts, viciously, but Billy breathes through it, _screams_ through it -- and then pushes back. With a feral snarl, Billy pushes forward and smashes the first guy in the face so hard he feels his nose crack. He keeps going, punch after punch, until he’s lost track, until he’s moved onto the next guy and his fists are sore, until the smell of blood is --

“ _Billy_ ,” Steve says, standing behind him. “We need to go. Now.”

Dumbly, Billy nods.

In the dark, the blood on his fists and the floor is as black as oil. He swallows.

“Are you okay?” Billy asks, stumbling to his feet.

Steve is nodding, but there’s a guy on the ground behind him, holding his knee at a _horrifying_ angle. There’s a split at Steve’s lip and blood dripping from the end of his bat.

Billy hadn’t even _heard_ a fourth guy.

“I’m fine,” Steve says. “Let’s go.”

He’s taking Billy’s hand, despite the blood, pulling him along. They have to step over the Russian that Steve, apparently, put down all on his own, in order to get to the garage door. Billy’s kind of disappointed that he missed it.

Steve’s got the door to the garage opening when the _bang_ rings through the hall.

“Shit,” Steve breathes out. “It’s us, it’s us!”

But Robin’s shouting that she _didn’t shoot_ and --

Billy feels _weird_. Then, delayed, pain blooms in his left arm. Right by the joint of his shoulder.

There’s a sound behind him -- a gun, dropping to the floor. He turns. The Russian Steve got earlier is there, collapsed, breathing hard. Saying something to Billy in a language he doesn’t understand. And that’s it, that’s all Billy needs.

Billy goes at the guy with the crowbar in his good hand, until he feels the crack of his skull underneath the weight of his swing. Again and again, until Steve is pulling him backwards and into the garage.

He slaps a hand on the wall by the door and the garage starts groaning open. Steve’s got a grip on Billy, tight, like he won’t ever let go. He pulls Billy after him as they duck under the churn of metal, Robin and Max racing ahead toward Steve’s car.

“Keys!” Robin calls.

Steve throws them at her. “Max, get in the front.”

Billy’s head swims a little. There’s heat running down the side of his arm. Steve’s sweater is sticking to his shoulder.

Steve shoves him into the back of the Bimmer and climbs in after him.

“Where am I going?” Robin asks.

“Just drive for now,” Steve says, his hands still on Billy, and Billy’s really not sure why Steve’s touching him but he’s not gonna _complain_. “C’mere.”

It’s weird, because _now_ Billy can hear the thundering of his heartbeat, can practically taste the panic at the back of his tongue. He swallows it -- and the _pain_ \-- down, but that does little more than make him dizzier.

“Those assholes _shot_ me,” Billy spits.

His hand had gone instinctively to his arm, to try and stop the pain. When he pulls it back, his palm is covered in new, wet, dripping blood.

Robin peels out of the driveway.

Steve's shoving Billy's hand out of the way, getting his fingers in the hole of the sweater, of the shirt stained with blood, and _yanking._ It tears easily.

In the passing streetlights, he squints at the wound in Billy's shoulder. He spits out a curse, pressing his palm over it as blood flows in rivets down Billy's skin.

"Max, in the duffel bag, there's a first aid kit." Steve says, pressing on Billy's shoulder.

Pain is sharp. Electric. He almost shoves Steve off out of sheer instinct, but he's practically in Billy's _lap_ holding pressure on the gunshot wound. So. You win some, you lose some, Billy thinks dizzily. He might even laugh, a little unhinged.

He lets himself slump a little, still breathing hard.

“Getting shot hurts like a _bitch_ ,” he says through his teeth. Then, “Robin, drive slower. Don’t make us a _target_.”

“Billy, shut up. Are you _okay_?” Max asks.

Steve snaps his fingers at her. "The _kit_ , Max. He'll be fine. Super healing, remember?"

Billy is vaguely aware of Max tossing the kit back to Steve. He barely even flinches when Steve starts pulling Billy’s sweatshirt and shirt off, leaving him freezing, shivering with warm blood dripping down his arm.

The rubbing alcohol that Steve splashes on him burns. He zones. The press of gauze helps, putting pressure as Steve wraps layer upon layer of bandage around Billy’s arm, holding it tight.

“If it’s a bullet, do we take it out, or leave it in?” Max asks.

"I don't _know_ ," Steve says, taping the gauze into place. "But we're not taking it out _here."_

The smell of blood is heavy in Billy's nose. Tangy. Like sucking on a penny. It's so _strong._ Then, Billy realizes _why._

Steve's cradling his face between his bloody hands. Those big, dark eyes searching his.

"You with me?" Steve asks. "You okay?"

“ _Hi_ ,” Billy says.

He thinks, idly, that maybe he’s not that okay. He definitely killed someone today. Maybe three someones. He has their blood on his hands -- literally -- though some of that is now probably also his own. He definitely felt their skulls smash under the weight of his strikes, though. Oh, like breaking piggy bank, but with way less reward.

“He sounds weird,” Max is saying, from the front seat.

It sounds like she’s thirty feet away. When Billy tries to look, she _looks_ thirty feet away, too. Stretching out into the distance, the back seat of the car expanding out and out, until she’s so far away. Billy didn’t know cars _did_ that.

Robin is drumming her fingers at the wheel, the sound echoing around, like they're deep in a cave. "Harrington, where am I _going_?"

"Just _drive_ , Rob. No destination, right now, just drive." Steve snaps, but he's urging Billy's face back to focus on him, not looking away. "Hey. _Hey_ , Billy, c'mon. You gotta tell me if you're okay, okay?"

Steve is cupping his face, so Billy mirrors the gesture and cups Steve’s.

“Peachy,” he says, because -- honestly? -- he _is_. The pain is suddenly _gone_ , disappeared, and he feels _great_.

Steve blinks a few times. _God_ , his lashes are so _long_. His eyes are so _pretty_.

"Um," Steve says, but he's not pulling away, and his cheek is _soft_ under Billy's fingers. "Are you-- are you _high_ , right now?"

Robin snorts and then chokes on it. "Oh, _shit_."

“Oh, shit,” Billy echoes, and then it turns into a giggle. And then a laugh.

“Is he okay?” Max asks.

“You've got really pretty eyes,” Billy says to Steve.

"He's high," Steve says, and Billy can _feel_ his face grow _warm_ ; it's _spectacular._ "Whatever they shot him with, it drugged him."

“You sure? Because he kinda sounds like that normally,” Robin says.

She's so far away, too.

“ _Bitch,”_ Billy says. Maybe it slurs, maybe it shouts.

"Yeah. He's okay," Steve says, sighs really, like it's a relief-- and then he slumps out of Billy's lap, falling back on the seat next to him, legs still half over Billy's thighs. "Jesus. Billy, do me a favor? Don't get shot, again."

Steve’s gone and Billy _hates_ that. Thinks that’s worse than getting shot, maybe. Besides, getting shot only hurt a little bit and now it’s gone -- the ache of Steve leaving, of going _all the way over there_ , is brutal. Billy makes a disgruntled noise and lets himself fall in the other direction, dropping right into Steve’s lap.

“Don’t go so far away,” Billy says, after he’s firmly over Steve’s thighs, cheek smushed up against denim.

Steve jerks a little under him.

From the front of the car, Robin is cackling. "Oh, my god."

"Shut up," Steve says, and then his hand is on Billy's head, running over his scalp, gentle. "I'm not going anywhere. You okay, big guy?"

“I’m good,” Billy says, eyes closing to the feeling of Steve’s fingers over his short hair. “Real good,” he says. He’s way better now. What was he even worried about?

“ _Billy_ ,” he hears, from Max, from far away.

“At least he’s not in pain,” Robin says.

"Gotta stay awake for me," Steve says. "Okay? Can you do that?"

That sounds _hard_ , but: “Anything you want,” Billy says.

The world is spinning a little bit, like Billy’s on some really good shit or drunk off his ass.The swaying of the car doesn’t help, but it doesn’t hurt either. Nothing hurts. It all feels so good, and all he wants to do is curl up here, on Steve’s lap, and ride it out.

Steve's fingers slipping through his short hair, gliding over his scalp, doesn't help abate that urge. Makes his head feel heavy; his jaw a little slack.

"--illy? Billy, can you talk to me?" he hears Steve, again, a little tug at his ear bringing things back into focus for a second. "I'll let you keep your eyes shut and stay here, but you gotta talk to me. Show me you're awake."

"Shouldn't we let him sleep it off?" Max asks.

"I don't want to risk him not waking back up, Max." Steve tells her, giving Billy's ear another little pull.

“C’n think of a way for you t’ keep me up,” Billy slurs.

Distantly, Max makes a noise. Robin laughs and says something -- Billy doesn’t know what. She’s too far away, too difficult to grasp onto. He’s trying his best to hold onto Steve. It helps, a little bit, when Billy digs his fingers into the fabric of Steve’s shirt and holds on tight. Like he’s anchoring himself from just floating away.

"Yeah?" Steve is asking, but his voice sounds all wrong; tight in places it shouldn't be and wobbly everywhere else. "Tell me about it. What can I do, big guy?"

This time, Billy hears Robin, loud and clear. “Steve, he’s _drugged_.”

"I'm just trying to keep him _talking_ ," Steve says. "I can barely understand what he's saying, anyway."

“Come sleep w’th me ‘gain,” Billy mumbles, trying to tug himself closer to Steve, but his hands aren’t cooperating and his body feels heavy.

The darkness behind his eyes swims with colors and it feels good, just to let himself drift there for a little while, enjoying the hot press of Steve’s body against his. Like a warm summer tide and Steve's the shore. Billy can’t dig his hands into the sand to hold on, to keep himself from drifting away, but the gentle rock of the waves is comforting, soothing, blissful.

Steve's hand falters and then stills, though. Then, stops touching all together.

"Robin, start driving toward the Wheeler house," Steve says.

The car jerks a sudden right and Billy’s face presses tight against the cotton at Steve’s belly. And that’s about when Billy passes out for good.

***

When Billy comes to, it's with a pounding behind his eyes and a churning in his gut. There's light flooding the back of the car, into his face, and he flinches away from it. Presses his eyes against soft, worn denim, instead.

"C'mon, big guy," he hears Steve. "We gotta get you inside. Get you cleaned up."

He wants to stay.

But.

“Think I’m gonna hurl,” he manages, as he shoves himself back from Steve to the other side of the car.

He fumbles with the handle until it swings open. On legs that don’t feel like his own, he stumbles out onto the pavement below, knees hitting asphalt, before he spills his guts in front of him in the grass.

“Impressive,” he hears from somewhere nearby. Robin.

“He gets drunk a lot,” Max says.

"Will one of you go get the door," Steve says, exasperated, and then he's there next to him, rubbing circles into the bare skin of his back. "Max, get the duffel bag. There's clothes in there."

Before Billy can even really gather himself together, he’s inside the familiar Wheeler house, leaning heavily against Steve’s side.

“ _Ow_ ,” Billy says, when he finally registers the pain that’s starting to radiate out from his arm and shoulder once more.

"Welcome back," Steve says, hauling him closer with an arm around his waist.

Mike is standing there, in the foyer with them, hissing at Max. "What are you _doing_? You can't bring him _here_!"

Max crosses her arms. "We were _attacked_. Where else could we go, _Michael_?"

Mike's nose scrunches up, his mouth opening as his face goes red, and then there's footsteps on the stairs. He cuts himself off, whipping around, ramrod straight-- only to slump when he sees it's Nancy.

"Oh, my god, what happened?" she asks, rushing down the last few steps, and then she's there under Billy's other arm, supporting him with Steve. "Basement. Let's get him to the basement."

She’s strong, Billy thinks, for someone so tiny. Even then, he’s not entirely sure how they manage to get him down the stairs into the basement, where the air smells musty and old, but they manage, depositing Billy on a long couch covered in blankets.

“He was shot. By Russians,” Max says, kneeling down in front of Billy’s face. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

It looks a lot like four, but Billy’s _pretty sure_ it’s only three. Everyone always holds up three. “I’m fine, Max.”

"How _many_ , asshole?" Max smacks at him.

Behind her, Steve is standing with Nancy, his arms folded as she looks him over. "Are _you_ okay? You're covered --"

"It's not mine," Steve says, but Nancy is right-- Steve's got blood on his hands, his shirt, his pants; his lower lip is swelling and Billy thinks he spots a bruise on his left cheek, like someone clocked him. "I'm fine. How much did Jonathan tell you?"

"Enough," she says. "Let me get something for your mouth."

And then she's bounding up the stairs.

"Earth to Billy!" Max says, waving a hand. "Hello? Fingers!"

“Thirty,” Billy says, and pushes himself upright. He’s always found that being upright helps a little bit with trying to feel more sober, instead of giving into the pull of alcohol and lying down.

“ _Billy_!”

“Close enough,” Robin says. “I’m going to go get him a _shirt_.”

And then she’s gone too, following Nancy up the stairs to, presumably, fetch Billy something to wear.

“I need -- to get this bullet out of my arm. Hurts like a motherfucker.” It’s only logical. Maybe he can’t heal around it. Or maybe he _could_ , but it feels like a bad idea.

Mike gestures over his shoulder. "Bathroom's right there."

And then Billy's staggering over to it. Stumbling through the door and slapping it shut behind him.

He can hear Max bickering with Mike just outside. Can hear the crackle of a radio as they _code red_ out to the rest of their little nerd squad. It's all a _lot_. A little too _much._

He squeezes his eyes shut and braces against the sink.

The door opens and shuts again behind him. When he opens his eyes, it's Steve, setting the first aid kit on the back of the toilet and then reaching for his wounded shoulder.

Billy shoves him back.

“No,” he says, trying to swallow through the pain that’s starting to crescendo. The nausea that’s set in at the back of his throat. “Just -- let me do it. It’s easier if I’m the one doing it.”

Steve doesn’t look happy about it, but he does hand Billy a pocketknife before sitting down on the toilet seat. A pocket knife wouldn’t be Billy’s _first_ choice, but it’s not like he’s got many other options. He doesn’t get to be picky. Besides: he’ll heal...he hopes.

“You don’t have to stay,” Billy warns, peeling off the blood-soaked gauze Steve wrapped around his arm earlier. Underneath, he finds the bullet wound. Raw and bloody and _gross_.

"About thirty minutes ago, you were so drugged out of your head you weren't making sense," Steve says, and his eyes are hard, harder than the tile floor of the bathroom. "I'm not leaving you."

Billy feels his whole body heat. He worries, for half a second, he did something _stupid_ while he was drugged -- but then he realizes, rather stupidly, that he has way more important things to be worried about right now. So, with a sharp movement, he nods. And then, he cuts into the flesh of his arm while keeping it angled over the sink to catch most of the dripping blood.

“ _Shit_ ,” he says, hissing a breath through his teeth. “God, that feels fuckin’ weird.”

Slicing into his own flesh is -- well, it’s bad. It’s made better, honestly, by pain. It’s something _else_ to focus on, instead of the feeling of the knife making the cut.

Billy’s not sure how he's going to get the damn thing _out_. His fingers are thick, slippery and warm, sticky with blood as he tries to dig in and get it. He can _feel it_ , the metal of it, so foreign in his body, but he can't get a _grip_.

" _Fuck_ ," he spits, pain jarring along his nerves when it slips again, head swimming a little as the tip of the knife digs into tender flesh.

It’s too much. He pulls free a second, jaw so tight his temples ache, and clutches at the sink's edge.

Steve is there in an instant. He doesn't go for the wound, gaping and bleeding heavy, but he grips Billy's bicep just below it. Steadies him.

"You sure you wanna do this yourself?" he asks.

“Yes,” Billy says, through gritted teeth. He doesn’t think he can bear the thought of Steve trying to dig the thing out; he’s got enough blood on his hands. “Let me just --"

Billy takes a breath, grips the knife with his fist, and digs the blade of it into his arm until he feels the tip hit metal. Like that, breathing hard and fighting nausea, he uses the knife like a lever to pull the bullet out. He clenches his teeth and hisses with it, whole body rebelling at the pain. The knife digs into his muscle, into the raw meat of him, but finally he feels the _give_ of it, of the knife drawing the bullet loose. He puts more pressure, groaning loud and uncaring, until it just _goes_ \-- and the bullet springs free, into the sink below with a disgusting, wet sound.

Billy leans heavy into Steve, vision swimming -- this time with pain, pure and unadulterated.

Steve's got him. Holds him up and grips him tight.

He doesn't know _when_ he started trusting Steve to hold him up like this, but he _does._

Steve's hushing him a little. Still squeezing at his bicep, like a steady anchor, and when Billy's head droops to rest on Steve's shoulder, Steve curves a hand over the nape of his neck and squeezes there, too.

"Easy, big guy," Steve tells him. "Easy. Let's just sit you down and clean you up, okay?"

And yeah, that sounds good. But Billy wants eyes on the bullet that they got him with, a sick desire to pocket the thing to keep it forever as some sort of souvenir (as if he doesn’t have enough of those already, in the form of scars). But when he gets his eyes on the bloody thing in the sink, once he gets the thing in between his fingers, his stomach drops out.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” he says, turning it over in his trembling fingers.

It’s not a bullet at all. It’s a blinking, complicated piece of _tech_.

A tracker.

"What?" Steve asks, pulling back and twisting so he can see, eyes going wide. "Why's it flashing like that?"

Billy doesn't get to answer because there's a sudden pounding on the door. A hand slapping against the wood.

A voice, sharp and scolding.

"-- don't know _what_ you all think you're doing here," _Karen Wheeler's_ voice. "Michael Wheeler, it is a _school_ night--"

And then the door is open and Karen is standing there in a robe, eyes wide on Steve and Billy. She freezes, mouth open, eyes darting around.

Billy feels Steve's grip tighten on him.

"What the _fuck_?"

Nancy and Mike's eyes bug out from where they skid to a stop behind Karen. " _Mom!"_

They must be a sight.

Bloody and braced against one another. Billy's hand fisted in Steve's shirt, the other holding the damning evidence of _danger._ Steve's fingers curled and stained dark at his nape, over his arm. Billy's body pinning Steve in, flush with the sink. His split lip. His bruised cheek. His bleeding arm, rivulets running over Steve's fingers and onto the tile floor below.

Bloody, beaten lovers.

It’s funny, almost. Or it would be, if Billy wasn’t holding the equivalent of a live bomb in his hand. But instead of an impending explosion, it’ll just bring Russians. Dozens and dozens of them, all armed to the teeth and ready to fight. They’re tenacious little bastards, Billy’ll give them that. Or he would, if he wasn’t so panicked about what their next steps need to be to escape, to keep everyone _safe_ , when all he wants to do is collapse under the weight of it all.

Billy kind of wants to hurl again. Instead, he puts on a broken grin and says, “Hey Mrs. Wheeler.”

Karen's mouth opens and then shuts, again. Her eyes still wide.

She staggers back a step, but then Nancy is there, catching her arm.

"Mom, listen, we can explain--" she says.

Billy wants to laugh. Good luck explaining a dead man in her basement.

Karen holds up a hand, cutting Nancy off. "Run up stairs. Get my sewing kit."

Nancy blinks. " _What?"_

"You heard me," Karen says, and her voice wobbles, but her chin tilts up like she's bracing herself. "Steve, if you could help him over to the couch? We need to stop the bleeding."

Steve's throat works. Billy feels his fingers flex over his skin.

Then, he's snatching the blinking little tracker out of Billy’s hand and _flushing it down the toilet._

Before Billy knows it, he’s sitting on the musty-smelling couch in the Wheeler’s basement with Karen Wheeler pressing a warm, damp washcloth to his arm. Billy watches, a little mesmerized, as she cleans him off, her fingers getting stained red with his blood as she works.

“I don’t suppose you’d tell me what’s happening, if I asked,” she says, voice a little tight with stress, with uncertainty. Her hands are gentle, but firm. “So I’m not going to ask.”

Billy swallows. The first press of the needle bites into his arm, but after getting shot, after digging that thing out of his arm -- well, it’s just another log to the fire already burning in his gut.

“It’s safer if we don’t tell you anything,” Billy says.

He likes Karen. She’s _nice_. She’s dependable. She reminds him -- he’s well aware of how fucked up that is -- of his own mother.

Or, at least, what his own mother was to him before she left.

Her lips are pressed thin, but she's nodding as she stitches up his arm. Her fingers don't shake.

Across the room, Max is fighting with Mike over the radio. Her face is flush, but she doesn't have a scratch on her. Robin ends up plucking the walkie talkie away from Mike when he tries to hold it over his head, and passing it to Max so that she can essentially speak in gibberish to Lucas and Dustin considering how many code words she's using.

"Well, either way," Karen clears her throat a little, smile weak but genuine. "I'm happy to see that you're-- well."

_Not dead_ , she doesn't say. Billy can imagine how wild this must be for her.

It was pretty wild for him.

When he really thinks about it, which he tries to avoid, it's a bit of a miracle that Steve found him. That Steve took him in.

He wonders, briefly, what would have happened to him if Steve hadn’t found him. Where Billy would be. What might have happened to Max.

When he looks, Steve's staring at him and Mrs. Wheeler while trying to shy away from the cold press of ice bundled in a washcloth Nancy keeps trying to press to his face. His eyes are dark and they don't meet Billy's; trained carefully, instead, on where Karen is stitching him up and cleaning his arm off.

He wants to pull Steve close to him just for the comfort of having someone at his side. Someone solid to lean on. Because Steve, even with his own trauma and his own fears, seems so solid to Billy. So dependable.

“Thanks,” Billy says, when she ties the final knot and cuts the thread.

He knows it’ll heal up fast, but this should speed up the process.

“We need to _leave_ ,” Billy then says, looking at Steve. “They could come here, still. Depending on when they picked up that signal.”

Mike blinks over at him from where he'd been glaring holes into the side of his face. "What signal?"

"The bullet," Steve says, nose scrunching up, like he's not exactly certain. "It… wasn't a bullet."

“It was a tracker,” Max breathes, realization dawning. It’s like something out of an action movie.

Robin breathes out something that sounds like a gasp.

“Shit, we _do_ need to leave.” For a moment, Billy’s kind of floored she wants to go with them, wherever they’re going. “Like, ASAP.”

"Where's the tracker, now?" Nancy asks, and Steve winces when she finally manages to get the ice pressed to his cheek.

"I, um. I flushed it." Steve says.

Max's brows fly up. "That was… smart, actually."

"Thanks," Steve huffs. "But Billy's right. We can't stay here. This was just a pit stop to get cleaned up and update the other nerds."

“Where are we going to _go_?” Billy asks, uncertainty flaring in his stomach.

Poor Karen Wheeler just sits across from him, stunned into silence. Her hands worry at her skirt. Billy wants to press his palm over them and tell her it’ll be fine, that they can take care of themselves, but he doesn’t think that he has the voice, nor the certainty, to do that.

Steve's smile is crooked and so painfully reassuring that it's like a punch to the gut. "I know a place. Don't worry."

Billy wants to fall into him, wants to close his eyes and stop running.

“Let’s go, then.”

In front of him, Karen makes a noise. “You need clothes,” she says. “Hold on. I’ll grab you some of Ted’s old things. They’re from a long time --” she stops herself, already on her feet and moving toward a closet in the basement. “Nevermind, it’s not important. He won’t notice they’re missing.”

"I have things in my duffel," Steve says, shuffling closer. "But if you've got more that would fit him, that'd be great."

Karen nods. "Of course. And I'll throw some snacks together for you, for the road."

Max slides into place next to Billy. "I'm coming with you."

“You’re not,” Billy says. “You have to go to school. You have to be _visible_. If you’re not, they’ll know something is up. If they find you, Max --” Billy pauses, chokes on a swallow. “I don’t want them to hurt you, if they think you know something.”

"They already know I know something," Max insists. "They followed me to Steve's. I'm coming with you."

“I’ll watch her,” Robin says, putting a hand on Max’s shoulder. “Keith can go suck it.”

Mike perks. "I'm coming, too--"

Karen stops in front of Billy, handing him a pair of old jeans and a long sleeved polo. It smells a little musty, but it'll do. Robin tosses him a sweatshirt she found earlier. At least he’ll stay warm.

"You are not going anywhere, young man." Karen says, hands on her hips, eyes narrowing on Nancy. "And neither are you."

"But--" Mike's face scrunches up.

"It's not safe," Steve says softly, arms full of other clothes, rolling them up and stuffing them into the duffel. "And we need someone to keep an eye out over here. Just in case."

Mike scowls, which Billy thinks is about the only expression the kid is capable of, but he finally stops arguing and concedes a petulant, “ _Fine_.”

“Promise me you’ll be careful?” Nancy says. When Billy looks over at her, she’s looking at Steve, big eyes so caring and concerned.

"You know me," Steve says with a little shrug. "When do I ever get in trouble?"

Nancy makes a face, like she's trying not to be amused, and then she's blinking over at Robin and Max. "You two will probably need some clothes, too. If you're gonna be gone long. Come upstairs with me?"

Robin is reluctant. She looks at Billy, meets his gaze, and rolls her eyes. Like trying to convey a bit of disdain.

Billy makes a face back, but then he’s nodding, jerking his head. “Go on. Max, go. Grab some things. Don’t know how long we’ll be gone.”

" _Don't_ leave without me," she says, and then follows Nancy and Robin upstairs.

Karen puts her hand on Mike's shoulder. "C'mon. Back to bed with you. You've got class tomorrow and a _lot_ to explain, young man." She pauses and looks back between Billy and Steve. "I'll have some food ready for you, upstairs."

"Thanks, Mrs. Wheeler." Steve says.

Billy nods, too. “Thanks. For everything.”

Karen makes a complicated sort of face, one that Billy doesn’t understand -- nor does he particularly want to.

When she leaves, her careful, quiet footsteps leading her upstairs with Mike in tow, Billy’s left alone with Steve in the basement.

“Fuck,” Billy breathes out, the reality of the situation truly sinking in.

It has him standing, fumbling his way out of the remainder of his blood-soaked clothes. He has to _do_ something, to stay _busy_. He needs to leave this place, to get on the road before they track him here. It’s only a matter of time, he thinks.

He's got Ted Wheeler's old pants up over his hips when Steve stops him.

A hand on his bicep, again. Fingers so damn gentle. Expression pinched.

"Hold on," he says, pulling him toward the restroom again. "You've still got-- you're still a fucking mess."

Billy is helpless to follow. To let Steve guide him and push him down onto the toilet. To watch as Steve dumps out the ice from his washcloth and hold it under the tap until the water starts steaming up the mirror.

Then, Steve's crouching in front of him, warm cloth pressing to his skin, wiping away the dried, flakey blood.

“I think a little bit of blood is the least of our concerns, Harrington,” Billy says, but his throat is tight and the press of Steve’s hands against him is warm and distracting.

Steve gives him a little smile, reaching up and dragging the cloth over his cheek. "I'd rather we don't show up looking like extras straight out of _Carrie._ "

“Where are we going?” Billy asks.

He feels some of the tension slip out of him as Steve washes the blood off of him, going easy and pliant under Steve’s hands. It’s not _perfect_ , not even _close_ \-- but it’s a taste of intimacy, even if it’s tainted with pain, and Billy will take what he can get.

Steve shuffles a little on his knees, frowning as he cleans Billy up-- it's not the first time, Billy remembers vaguely; the only thing missing are the dozens of blankets. "Illinois. There's a place we can stay, with Joyce."

Billy takes a breath and slowly lets it out. “You think it’s safe, putting me in the same place as that kid? The one they’re _looking for?_ ”

"I think it's safer than trying to stay here," Steve says. "At least until reinforcements come. As much as I'd like to say fuck it and run, I don't think that really an option, either."

And isn't that a pleasant thought. On the run, on the road, with Steve Harrington at his side.

It's easy to imagine, too. Staying in various motels, eating at hole in the wall diners, maybe even ending up on the beach. It's a pipe dream, a desperate, feverish fantasy -- but Billy _wants_ all the same.

“What, you don't wanna run away with me, pretty boy?” Billy asks, tone a little pinched, smoothness killed by the drag of a washcloth over his still-healing wound.

Steve smiles again, crooked and small, breathing out a little laugh as he handles Billy's arm, twisting it with care. "You asking me to, big guy?"

When the blood is gone, Steve starts in with some gauze to cover the wound. His hands are just as gentle, just as kind.

“We could. Bonnie and Clyde it. You be Clyde, I'll be Bonnie,” Billy says.

"Pretty sure you drive faster than me," Steve says. "You'd probably be the better Clyde. And I don't think you could pull off the dress and Tommy-gun look."

“I can pull off _anything_ ,” Billy says. “But if you think you could pull it off _better_ , you’re welcome to try.”

"Well," Steve shrugs, and Billy's not sure if it's the light or not, but he thinks Steve's face colors a little. "I _am_ prettier."

Billy huffs out a laugh. “You’re pretty, but _prettier?_ Debatable. Have you seen me?”

Steve's gaze strays over Billy’s face. Quick. Flitting. Like he doesn't quite mean to let it. Lashes fluttering as he blinks a few times and then looks down, throat clearing.

"Yeah, okay," Steve says, pushing to his feet and dropping the washcloth into the sink, turning the tap on, wasting time and filling the space as he washes off his hands; there's still blood under his nails when he's done and he picks at them before finally looking at Billy, again. "I would, you know. If that were the better option. I'd run off with you."

Billy goes a little quiet. He doesn’t know what that _means_. But Steve won’t look at him and he’s certainly not going to elaborate, Billy thinks, so he just chews at his tongue and watches Steve, trying to figure him out. They’re friends, maybe. And maybe Steve’s trying to be okay with that. But that doesn’t feel exactly right, and it feels a lot like Billy’s missing a piece of the puzzle.

“Yeah?” Billy says, finally, like it’s any sort of actual answer, anything useful. “Life on the run with Billy Hargrove, certified undead Russian experiment?”

"I mean, it'd probably be more interesting than working at _Family Video_ for the rest of my life. Besides," Steve shrugs a shoulder, turning off the tap and twisting to face him, one hip against the sink, arms crossed over his chest. "I promised you that you wouldn't have to do this alone."

“Yeah,” Billy says, a soft smile making its way to his face, unbidden but unfightable. “Yeah, I’ve got you, Harrington.”

"Exactly," Steve nods. "If I'm stuck with you, you're stuck with me."

But he's smiling, too. Doesn't seem bothered by the idea at all.

"Now, put a shirt on," Steve says, heading for the door, throwing Billy's words from earlier right back in his face. "Before Robin comes back and gets the wrong idea."

Billy’s stomach goes tight and warm, flipping over itself at the after-image of Steve’s stupid smile. It feels heavy, the idea that Steve’s got him, that Steve’s refusing to leave his side. _I don’t like him_ , he told Max. _He’s just hot_ , he told himself: i’s just idle attraction, the lingering crush of the first guy he had the hots for in Hawkins, Indiana.

Now, he’s not so sure he believes himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **chapter warnings:**  
>  **violence:** guns, murder, non-consensual drugging, home invasion, injuries given and received  
>  **other content warnings:** gore, blood, wounds, descriptions of injuries (either received or given), at-home surgery, billy digs a projectile out of his body with his bare hands, vomit


	9. VIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Road trips are less fun when you're on the run.

Leaving the Wheeler's in the dead of night feels oddly like a _goodbye_. Steve's just not sure, exactly, what he was saying goodbye _to._

They've been on the road for an hour when Billy finally gives up the ghost in the back seat, slumping against the window, _snoring_. Max's head is pillowed against his thigh; she's been out practically since they left Hawkins. Steve keeps the radio on low, music soft, just enough to keep him from going crazy as he keeps them headed down the interstate.

"Cookie?" Robin asks, holding out one if the cookies Karen Wheeler put in a tin and pushed into Billy's hands before they left, map open in her lap.

Steve snorts. "I'm good."

He hears Robin munch away at one cookie next to him, then another. Finally, he rolls his eyes and holds his hand out for one, if only for something to do.

It’s only after Robin hands him the cookie, chocolate chips already melting on his fingertips, that she says, “I know you told Billy about me.”

Steve jerks, ties swerving a bit, before he rights them and then checks the review to make sure both Max and Billy are still out.

"He _told_ you?" Steve asks, eyes wide as the flit to her and then back to the road, something oily and awful pitting in his belly.

Robin laughs a little. "No. But your reaction just did."

"Oh," Steve slumps, fingers flexing over the wheel. "I'm so fucking sorry, Rob. I didn't even-- I didn't even _tell_ him, he just-- he _guessed_ , kind of, and I tried to cover for you, but--"

She laughs, though. It’s a quiet, soft thing. “It’s okay,” she says.

She _should_ be annoyed. She should be angry. She has every right to be mad at him for spilling something so huge, so personal.

"It's _not_ ," Steve says. "I betrayed your trust. I'm an _asshole_."

“Steve, it’s okay,” she says again. “I figured you didn’t _mean_ to. Besides,” she hazards a quick glance to the backseat, where Billy’s snoring away, “I think it made him hate me a little less.”

That-- doesn't make a whole lot of sense.

Steve bites into his cookie, chewing, talking around his mouthful. "That doesn't make a whole lotta sense."

“It does,” Robin says. And then -- just doesn’t elaborate. Instead, she eats another cookie.

Steve blows out a long breath, puffing his fringe away from his eyes, and shifts in his seat. "Still. Even on accident, it wasn't cool of me. So, I'm sorry."

“It’s okay. I mean, I’d definitely be mad if you let it slip to the wrong person, but…” She trails off, then shrugs. “But you didn’t. And I’m pretty sure we’ve all got way bigger things on our plates right now.”

"Yeah," Steve winces and glances in the rearview again.

A while ago, he would’ve thought Billy _would’ve_ been the wrong person to tell. Now, Steve’s oddly sure he’s not.

He can make out Billy's face, even in the dim light. The lines of his cheeks, his jaw, his nose. The scar in his right brow. Without the long mess of curls, his ears stand out more, but the dark blonde mess is growing back in. Steve's sure there will be curls on top of his head soon enough. Besides, Steve kind of likes his ears.

Without the light, he can't see the sparse freckles he knows are scattered over Billy’s cheeks and the bridge of his nose. He's paler, now, but still so--

"Um," Steve blinks a few times and shifts in the driver's seat, squinting out at the road. "Speaking of things that aren't really important, right now…"

He shoves the rest of his cookie into his mouth before he can finish that thought himself.

“Is this about your little crisis in the kitchen?” Robin asks.

When Steve glances at her, she’s not looking at him. She’s turned around, twisted in her seat, looking at Billy with a careful, curious sort of look. Like she’s trying to figure him out -- or perhaps, like she’s trying to figure Steve out, through him.

Steve's throat works. His palms are sweaty.

"Uh huh," he nods. "What, uh… I mean, I don't generally… I mean, is that _normal?_ I still-- I mean, chicks, Rob. Chicks are great."

She laughs. “Yeah, that’s normal. You can --” she twists around, voice dropping a little, “both is definitely normal, Steve.”

"Are you sure?" He can't help the way his voice squeaks a little. "I mean, I'm not saying that I _am_ \-- or-- or that I _do_. Both. But-- but are you sure?"

Robin smiles. “I’m absolutely sure. I mean, some people don’t think so, but I’ve known a couple people who feel that way. And if that’s the way you feel, it’s not like you can be _wrong_ in what you like. It’s like saying your favorite color is _wrong_ , which is just stupid.”

"Right," Steve breathes, fingers drumming a little on the steering wheel; he checks the mirror again. "Right."

In his sleep, Billy looks _soft._ Pretty.

"Doesn't matter," Steve shrugs it off, the feeling welling up in his chest. "We've got bigger issues."

“You’re freaking out about it less, though,” Robin says. “That’s good.”

"Yeah," Steve laughs, a little tired, a little resigned. "Well. It doesn't matter, you know? It's not-- it's not like it's gonna go anywhere."

“What, are you psychic?” Robin asks. “How would you know?”

"Um," Steve's face scrunches up as he looks at her. "He's-- well, he's _him._ "

When all Robin does is raise a brow, unimpressed, Steve sighs and lowers his voice.

"He was gonna hook up with _Mrs. Wheeler_. He's not-- he's _Billy._ He's not like… that."

“ _Wow_ ,” Robin says, presumably at the comment about Mrs. Wheeler. She glances back at Billy, who keeps on snoring, and then chuckles. “I don’t think he’s really like _that_ either. People contain multitudes, Steve.”

"We're not _high._ Don't get all… philosophical on me."

“I’m just saying. I don’t think that’s who he is, really. It’s like...posturing. I’m just saying.”

Steve squints at her. "What are you doing, right now?"

“What do you mean, _what am I doing?_ I’m eating cookies in a car with my best friend, while we’re on the run from crazy Russians, with a dead guy and his sister.”

" _No_ , I mean with the _I'm just saying_ bullshit." Steve says. "What are you trying to say by implying that?"

“Well, you said it wouldn’t go anywhere. I just think you shouldn’t write yourself off so easily. You’re a good guy, Steve Harrington.”

"I mean-- well. Thank you." Steve frowns, then shakes his head. "But that's not the point. Besides whatever _postering_ \--"

"Posturing."

"-- you're talking about, it doesn't _matter_ because we _are_ on the run from crazy Russians with a dead guy and his sister."

“Yeah, but we won’t be on the run forever.” She shrugs. “ _I’m just saying_. No point in writing it off unless you’re, like, outright rejected.”

Steve rolls his eyes. "I'm not gonna get rejected because I'm not gonna do anything about it."

“Well, that seems like a really shitty way of celebrating after we sort all this shit out. Getting laid would be _much_ better.”

" _Robin_ ," Steve's definitely not proud of the way his voice cracks, face burning as he reaches over and smacks at her as she bats him away with a laugh. "Shut _up_. I don't even-- you're such a _dick_."

"I agree."

Steve feels his stomach lurch at the sleepy rasp of Billy's voice. He glances in the mirror to see him rubbing a hand over his face.

"And you're both _loud_."

Steve's stomach drops right to his feet. "Sorry."

“Morning, Sleeping Beauty,” Robin says.

“Who’s getting laid?” Billy asks. He still sounds like sleep. Softer than normal.

"Nobody," Steve says, just as quickly as Robin drolls, "Steve, hopefully."

Steve watches as Billy frowns in the rearview, face going all scrunched up.

“Cool,” Billy says, sounding annoyed at being woken up. Then, “Do we have any more of those cookies?”

Robin rolls her eyes and passes the tin back to him. "Boys are so fucking stupid."

***

The fluorescents of the 7-11 are harsh. Steve hates them with a fervor.

"What kind of soda does Max like?" Steve asks over his shoulder.

She's outside, still passed out in the back seat. Robin's pumping the gas.

“Coke,” Billy says, scanning the fridges before spotting something. He pauses for a second, then pulls something out. “Hey, this is new. Thought this was just in, like, diners.” Then, Billy procedes to pull out two additional bottles. When Steve wanders closer to get a better look, it’s Cherry Coke.

"Cherry?" Steve grins a little. "That for you or her?"

“Both of us,” Billy says. “And you, too, if you’ve got any taste.”

There’s a certain allure to drinking whatever Billy’s drinking. It’s stupid, but it’s there regardless.

Steve shrugs a little and then nods. "Sure. I mean, the one on Main puts those little maraschino cherries in it, though. Don't know how it'll live up in comparison."

“Well, yeah. But sometimes we gotta make do with what we have,” Billy says. He grabs another one, presumably for Robin, just to round out the lot. “You getting any snacks?”

"Chips and some of those mini doughnuts," Steve says, and wonders why Billy's voice sounds so bitter around the words _make do_. "Gonna get a coffee, too. I'm wiped. You want one?"

“Yeah,” he says, letting Steve load his arms up with snacks so that he can grab two coffees.

"You, uh," Steve wets his lips, eyeing Billy's shoulder as he pulls two of the large paper cups free, setting one under the carafe. "You doing okay?"

“Sure,” Billy says, eyes on the way the coffee’s filling the cup.

Steve watches him for a moment, then looks back to the coffee, just in time to keep from overfilling it. He lets go of the lever with a little curse, nearly spilling it out over his fingers when he yanks it from under the spout.

" _Shit_ ," Steve hisses.

“Careful, pretty boy,” Billy says. “I don’t have the hands to help you out.”

"M' _fine,"_ Steve mutters, setting the cup down a shaking out his fingers when a little coffee spills over the edge. "Don't need any help."

“Hey, are _you_ okay?” Billy asks.

" _Yeah_ ," Steve frowns over at him, shoving the other cup under the spout of the carafe. "Why _wouldn't_ I be?"

Billy laughs a little, low and sarcastic. “Why _would_ you be?”

Steve feels a little ripple of agitation rush up through him. He knows he's just tired and on edge, but _still_.

It's as if Billy thinks he can't deal. Can't take care of himself.

"I wasn't the one who got _shot_ ," Steve whispers, voice low.

Billy’s posture goes a little tight. His mouth opens, then closes and his lips press thin. Steve watches his jaw clench, watches the muscles in his neck work as he swallows.

“Come on, get your coffee. We should get back on the road.”

Steve flips off the lever. " _Seriously?"_

He puts his hands on his hips, glancing over to make sure the cashier isn't paying them any attention. He's not.

"We should get back on the road?" Steve asks. "You think I don't know that? I was just trying to gauge how _you're_ doing-- because, out of all of us, you should probably be the least _okay._ "

Billy scowls. “It’s not some sort of competition.”

"I'm not saying it _is_ ," Steve insists. "I'm _saying_ you can tell me if you're not okay."

“So can _you_ ,” Billy counters.

"Yeah, but I'm _fine_."

Billy _rolls his eyes_. “Sure. Fine, whatever. Just hurry up, then.”

"What's your _problem_?" Steve asks. "Am I not _allowed_ to be fine?"

“You’re allowed to be whatever the fuck you want,” Billy says.

Steve blinks, flinching back a little at the tone-- and then he turning, capping the coffees, and marching toward the counter. "Fine. Let's _go."_

Billy follows after him, quiet. He sets all the shit down on the counter and then turns, wandering away as Steve pays, hovering near the door, eyes looking outside at their car. Keeping watch.

Steve pays the guy behind the counter with a terse smile and a twenty. Asks for a pack of smokes. Takes the bag of stuff looped on one arm and the coffees in both hands.

If he shoves by Billy a little-- well, it's not like it _matters._

Back in the day, Billy would’ve pushed past Steve, would’ve evened the score. Now, though, he just trails behind Steve as he walks back to the car. Steve doesn’t look back at him, but he can _feel_ the way Billy looks -- tense and angry, coiled tight like a spring.

“I’ll take the back seat,” Robin says, when they get to the car.

“No,” Billy says, already rounding on his previous spot. “You won’t.”

"Um," Robin's eyes go a little wide, glancing between them. "Yes, I will? I've been up all night with dingus, here. My turn to take a nap."

“So?” Billy says. “You can sleep up front.”

Robin snorts. "Yeah, _no._ Not enough leg room."

"Drop it, Rob." Steve says, jerking the driver door open after setting the coffees on the hood. "If Billy wants to fucking play _dibs_ , let him."

He feels like a scolded _puppy_ when Billy looks at him. He _hates_ it.

Rolling his eyes, Steve climbs into the driver's seat, tucking the coffees into the cup holders and snapping his door shut. He winces when Max lets out a muffled groan of protest in the back.

Despite everything, Billy ends up next to Steve in the front, apparently forfeiting the back to Robin for the purposes of sleep. But he’s quiet next to Steve as they pull out of the lot, quiet as they get back onto the highway. The only noise he makes is the sound of his throat working, as he gulps down half his bottle of cherry coke.

Luckily, Steve's a _pro_ at the quiet game. He's had plenty of chances to learn it-- the doting son, the stupid jock, the useless douchebag. All roles where keeping his mouth shut was in his favor.

He reaches for the radio. Turns it on to something soft. Some station that only plays shit like _Fleetwood Mac_ and _Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers._ Bob Dylan's _Tangled Up in Blue_ thrums quiet through the speakers.

Steve can tell Billy’s mad because he says _nothing_ about the taste in music, _nothing_ about how he’d rather listen to something else, which Steve knows by now is true.

He feels like they're, like, at a _stalemate_ or whatever. Like neither of them is willing to budge.

And Steve _knows_ he could out-stubborn Billy on this. He just doesn't _want_ to. Doesn't _want_ Billy mad at him. Doesn't even really understand why he _is_ other than maybe Steve was acting too much like a _brat_ , but.

But usually Billy would just be a dick right back at him, and that would be that.

" _Fuck me_ ," Steve huffs under his breath and then flexes his fingers over the steering wheel. "Okay. Fine. I'm tired and I'm stressed out and I'm worried-- and I'm _definitely_ gonna lose my shitty job and my pops is _definitely_ gonna hear about it and rip me a new one-- not like it _matters_ because, you know, _Russians_ \-- but I'm strung out about it _anyway_ because it's better than worrying about the Russians and, well, _you."_

Steve says it all in a rush. Doesn't even look at Billy until that last little bit is out of his mouth, and when he does, it's only to meet Billy's wide blue eyes. He feels his face color, heat rushing to the surface.

"So," Steve says. "I'm not _fine_ , okay? But fine is a lot easier than explaining all of _that_ , plus the fact that my cheek hurts like a _bitch_ from that Russian dude back handing me-- and I'm really _sick_ of people hitting me in the _face._ Okay?"

Steve’s eyes are on the road, but he knows Billy’s looking at him.

He’s quiet for a long time, which just makes Steve want to _squirm_ , before he says, voice tight and angry, “What, he _hit_ you? Why didn’t you say anything?”

Steve shoots him an incredulous look, a little shudder thrumming through him at the look on Billy's face. "What, did you think I got this bruise by slamming into a _wall_? Of course he hit me. And I took out his kneecap."

“It was dark,” Billy says. “I noticed, I just -- didn’t think, and then I,” he trails off. Then he got _shot_. “Well, he’s dead now.” So matter-of-fact. But with a hint of anger and malice, too.

"Right," Steve says. "So…? It's your turn."

Billy huffs. “Of course I’m not fine. Why the fuck would I be fine?”

"Yeah, but-- I mean, you can talk about it, okay? We can talk about things. To each other." Steve says. "You can trust me."

He just hopes that Billy _does._

“That’s a two way street you know,” Billy says, sounding somewhere between moderately annoyed and exhausted. “You pretending you’re fine doesn’t solve shit.”

"You're right," Steve nods, throat working. "But my problems are dumb. Yours aren't."

“Jesus,” Billy hisses. “How are your problems dumb? See, that shit? You gotta stop with that shit. It’s not a fucking competition.”

Max grumbles something from the back seat, but closes her eyes again and shifts, likely trying to go back to sleep.

"I'm not trying to _compete_. I'm just stating _facts_." Steve says, glancing in the rearview, seeing Robin conked out, head back, mouth open. "My problems, from an objective standpoint, are not as… I dunno, _important."_

“So?” Billy says. “Even if that _were_ true, I still don’t care. It’s not going to help me, pretending you’re alright, and lying to me doesn’t exactly foster any trust between us. Besides,” he says, “maybe I give a shit if you’re okay or not.”

Steve blinks a few times, gaze forward on the road. Something flutters and turns over in his chest, and he lets out a shaky little breath.

"Okay," he says, slow. "Maybe you give a shit. I'll try being more honest in the future. But you've gotta do the same. Because I _do_ give a shit."

“Fine,” Billy says. “I’m not okay. I was shot, I was apparently _dead_ , and now I’m on the run from people who were fucking experimenting on me.” He takes another sip of his soda. “And I’ve just killed _even more_ people.”

"Justifiable homicide," Steve says, shifting a little when Billy raises a brow. "I read it-- somewhere. Or probably saw it in a movie. Point is, first time you weren't in control, and second time you were defending yourself. It sucks, but it's true. Don't let it eat you up."

_I'm not_ , Steve doesn't say, picturing the blood dripping from his bat.

"How's the shoulder?"

“Fine,” Billy says, before he amends: “It hurts, but it’s healing, I can tell.”

Steve nods. "And the previously dead and experimented on. How are you dealing with that? Flashbacks? Nightmares? Panic attacks?"

Billy shrugs. “All of the above? Shit,” he breathes out. Steve hears his head clunk against the window. “I’m just trying to make it _through_ this, Steve.”

Steve can't help it. He reaches over and places his hand on Billy's knee, squeezing.

Just wanting to show he's _here_.

" _Hey_ ," he says. "I _get it_ , okay? Nightmares and freak outs and just-- just trying to get _through_ it. You know what helps?"

Billy doesn’t flinch away, but he does look down at Steve’s hand. Steve can’t read his expression, but he’s quiet for a second before he asks, “What?”

"A _fuck ton_ of booze," Steve says, grinning a little, squeezing again; he lingers for a second more and then withdraws as Billy huffs out something that might be a laugh. "No, but seriously, um. Being around people? Friends? Taking deep breaths? Finding an anchor? There's lots."

Out of the corner of his eye, Steve watches as Billy pulls his fingers over the spot on his knee where Steve’s hand just was.

“Yeah,” he says. “Let’s work on all that shit. But once we’re somewhere safe. Right now, that’s sorta my only priority.”

"Right, yeah. Totally." Steve nods, throat working. "Priorities."

“But hey,” Billy says. “I’m in a car full of people I trust. That’s a start, right?”

Steve can't help but smile. "Yeah. That's a start."

***

" _This_ is the safehouse?" Max asks, arms crossed as Steve unloads his duffel and the bat from the trunk. "It's a _garage._ It doesn't _loo_ k very _safe_."

Steve sighs. "I just drove us here, Max. I don't know all of the details. Maybe it's reinforced."

Max is right, though. It _doesn't_ look like much. Doesn't scream _safety._

“Well, it’s where were are, now,” Robin says.

Behind her, Billy looks tired. Not just tired, really -- honestly, he looks like shit. But he was shot, and drugged, and then he dug a tracker out of his arm with his bare hands. And before that, he was _still_ catching up on sleep from being in that place, from all the shit that was done to him. Steve thinks, given all that, he looks pretty great.

“How do we get in?” Billy asks.

When Steve steps up to his side, he doesn’t have to even reach out to make the first contact; Billy just slumps against him, like he’s trusting Steve to take some of his weight. Like he just _knows_ Steve’ll be there, that he won’t shy away.

Steve takes it easily. Even with Billy slowly but surely gaining back weight, Steve can support him without thinking. Wonders if it's just because, at this point, it's habit.

He slings his arm around Billy's waist and shuffles them over to a box on the wall by the door. "I think we ring the doorbell," he says.

Robin gets there first and jams her finger at it, ringing it long and steady.

“Wow, they’re gonna be real glad we’re here,” Billy mutters. He sounds _tired_. His head rests against Steve’s shoulder.

Steve rolls his eyes, but he pulls Billy that much closer.

It's daylight, now. Morning. But later, well past dawn. Steve hasn't slept, not since accidentally sleeping next to Billy. He's tired, too.

The warmth of Billy next to him is good. Steve feels like he could close his eyes, right here, and be perfectly content.

Robin jabs her finger against the buzzer, again. "Hellooo? Anybody home?" she calls.

The speaker next to the doorbell crackles to life.

“ _State your full names,”_ an unfamiliar voice says.

“Let us _in_ ,” Max says.

There's a _click_ and another _crackle. "Look at the camera and state your full names."_

"Camera?" Steve frowns at the speaker.

Robin smacks him on the chest and points. "Up there, dingus."

"Oh," Steve squints up at the camera in the corner, shuffling Billy with him as he turns to face it. "Um. Steve Harrington. Billy Hargrove."

Max huffs and crosses her arms. "This is stupid. El! El, are you in there?!"

The door clicks. At least five locks all turning at once before the door swings open.

The speaker goes, “Hey, no, _wait--”_

And then El’s at the door, pulling Max inside and into a hug. “You’re safe.”

Steve watches as Max buries in close, wrapping the other girl up just as tightly in her arms. It's painfully sweet.

Steve jostles Billy a little, smiling.

Behind El, Murray Bauman comes bustling forward. "You can't just bypass my security system like that. You could expose us!"

Steve blinks. "Mr. Bauman."

Max pulls away from El, grinning. "Bald Eagle!"

Murray groans, rubbing his hand over his face, shoving his glasses up. "I _hate_ children."

“Who’s this guy?” Billy asks, but his voice is tired and he makes no effort to stand up straight.

"Um," Steve's brow pinches. "He, uh. He used to work for the paper, but he helped us with the Gate--"

"Inside," Murray hisses. "Get _inside._ We can't talk about this out here."

They all trail in to Murray's _safehouse_. El keeps her arm linked with Max's, giggling at something she mutters in her ear. Robin follows, nose wrinkling up at all of the papers posted up on the walls-- data, maps, pictures-- and Steve ignores all of it, dropping his bag and the bat in the entryway, as Murray slams and locks the door shut behind them.

It doesn’t really feel _safe_ , but they did drive for a really long time. It feels like maybe, just _maybe_ , they could have a reprieve for a little while. They’re owed it, right?

“Hi, honey,” Joyce says, rounding the corner to pull Steve into a hug. Billy pulls away to let her. “Are you alright?”

Next to him, Billy huffs out something like a laugh.

"Tired," Steve says, and lets himself fold into her hug for a second.

_Fuck_ , it's nice to have an _actual_ adult around.

When they pull back, he smiles, a little crooked down at her. "I'm sure you've got questions. Mind if we rain check long enough to get this guy some pain killers and maybe a bed?"

Steve jerks a thumb in Billy's direction. He doesn't miss the way Billy rolls his eyes.

"What's wrong with him?" El asks, stepping up closer.

Max rolls her eyes in an _exact_ replica of Billy's own annoyance. "He got _shot."_

"Oh!" Joyce gasps, covering her mouth. "Oh, goodness, let's get you laying down."

And then her hands are on Billy, ushering him further into the safehouse. Steve laughs at the wide eyed look on Billy's face.

“I’m really okay,” he hears Billy say, though it’s not like Joyce is going to hear any of that.

“You should get some rest, too,” Robin says, putting a hand on Steve’s shoulder. “You’ve been driving for a long time.”

"Yeah," Steve bobs his head, palming the back of it and pulling at his hair a little; just trying to stay on his feet. "I will. Just gotta… you know, stuff. Update Joyce and everybody."

"We can do that," Max says.

"No, it's fine, I can--"

“Jesus, dingus. Just go get some sleep, for the love of god. Billy was just shot, he killed people, and you were attacked by Russians. You shouldn’t leave him alone right now, and you shouldn’t be alone, yourself.”

With that, she shoves him in the direction Joyce took Billy in. Behind him, Steve hears Murray go, “I’m sorry, did you say they _killed_ people?”

Steve does _not_ want to stay for that conversation.

He bites the bullet and trails after where he hears Joyce talking at Billy in a hushed, rapid tone. It's kind of stunning to watch-- tiny, little Joyce pushing big, bad Billy Hargrove around. It's sweet, the way he looks at her, like she's a constant shock to his system.

Steve stalls out in the living room, where Jonathan is sitting with Will on the couch, a game of cards between them. He smiles when Will looks up.

"Steve!" He beams, and Jonathan twists to face him.

"Hey, man." Jonathan nods, eyes scanning over him. "Whoa. You look _exhausted."_

"You don't pull your punches, do you?" Steve laughs a little and meets him halfway when he comes in for a brief hug.

"Well, I coulda said you look like shit."

Will pops up and smacks his brother in the stomach. " _Dude._ You don't look like shit, Steve."

"Thanks, man." Steve smiles, scrubbing a hand through Will's hair. "Swear to god, this kid is gonna be taller than all of us."

“Probably,” Jonathan says. Will flushes a little, suddenly the center of attention.

“Is Billy alright?” Will says. “Did I hear that he got _shot_?”

"Yeah, he's okay. Just healing." Steve assures. "It wasn't anything fatal or anything."

“Jeez,” Jonathan says. “Only Billy Hargrove gets shot and walks it off as just _not fatal_ , huh?"

Steve shrugs, wincing a little as he rubs a tired hand over his face, and his cheek and lower lip throb. "Admittedly, we were all kinda panicking about it, at first. He's all patched up, now."

"Steve!" Robin says as she rounds the corner. "I thought you were going to crash. Go!"

“Goodnight, Steve,” Will says.

“Get some rest, man,” Jonathan says, patting him on the back.

"Where's, uh… where's a bedroom?" Steve asks.

"Right down that hall, first door on your right." Jonathan points.

Steve nods and pads that direction. His feet seem to drag a bit; exhaustion catching up to him. He can feel it-- in the way his bones ache and his teeth are starting to chatter. A sign that he's pushing his limits.

He finds the door Jonathan was talking about, sliding it open. He falters when he sees that Billy is already sitting at the foot of the bed, shirt off, as Joyce checks the dressing on his shoulder.

"Oh," he says. "Sorry. Jonathan said I could crash in here, but I can find--"

"Steve, sweetie, there's really not another room besides this one." Joyce smiles. "There's the pull out couch, but I doubt you'll be getting much sleep out there."

"Oh," Steve says, again. "I mean, I can always wait--"

“Steve,” Billy says, sounding tired, half-awake. “Just come sleep.”

Like every time Billy says his name, Steve's weak to obey. He shuffles in, smile tight, and nods.

"Thanks for checking him over, Ms. Byers."

"No problem," she says, pressing the bandage back into place and patting Billy's other shoulder. "You boys get some rest, okay?"

"Okay," they both chime, and then she's stepping out and sliding the door shut behind her.

"Um," Steve hovers, palms sweating. "I left the duffel bag by the door. I should probably--"

“What, get your pajamas?”

Billy lays down -- or flops, more like. He kicks off his jeans as he’s lying down, uncaring, exhausted as he shimmies out of them.

Steve's mouth feels ridiculously _wet._

"Right. Uhh. You're right. That's dumb."

He swallows, thick, and then turns away from the sight of Billy Hargrove stripping down in front of him. It's in the most exhausted, mundane fashion he's ever seen, but it still has Steve feeling _hazy._

He blames the fatigue.

Kicking off his shoes, Steve shoves his pants down and then pads over to the other side of the bed. Billy's already halfway under the covers; Steve crawls in next to him, biting on his tongue, his ears hot.

“Thanks,” Billy says, though Steve’s not sure exactly for _what_.

Steve settles in on the bed. It's lumpy and a little musty, but it'll do.

"What do you mean?" Steve asks, adjusting a pillow under his head.

“For all of it,” Billy says. “All of this shit. You didn’t have to help me, and you did. And you didn’t have to _keep_ helping me. Hell, you don’t even have to be here with me right now, and you are.”

Steve turns on his side to face him, startling a little when he finds Billy already there. His mouth twitches up, in a crooked smile, and he shrugs and tucks under the covers a bit more, teeth chattering a second from the exhaustion.

"Yeah, I do," Steve says. "It's the right thing to do. And I promised."

“Still,” Billy says. “Not everyone keeps promises, and not everyone always does the right thing. Just accept the thanks, idiot.” He sounds fond.

"Okay," Steve nods. "Accepted, I guess. Or-- you're welcome?"

Billy smiles a little. “Better,” he says.

He reaches out and his hand lands on Steve’s shoulder, fingers curling there. His eyes fall shut and he doesn’t let go like Steve assumed he would.

His hand is warm. A steady weight. And Steve's so damn _tired_.

Shuffling a little closer, just a smidge, he lets himself have this. This closeness. This warmth. For just a little bit.

He hardly notices when, between one blink and the next, he falls asleep.


	10. IX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Planning, deflection, and nightmares.

Billy wakes up in the darkness, afterimages of blood, and syringes, and cold metal tiles lingering in his head. He wakes up cold, wakes up stiff. Asleep one second, awake the next.

His arms tighten against what they’re holding -- something _warm_ , something comforting -- and that something tightens back. Billy nearly jerks back in surprise, thoughts still swirling from nightmares, from visions of yesterday and all the months that led up to it. It takes him a second to connect all the dots, to realize that it’s a person holding him and not restraints, that it’s just _Steve_.

Sleepy, half-awake, Billy sags in relief and burrows in close, pressing his face up against Steve’s neck, bare chest up against Steve’s cotton-clothed one.

The relief is short-lived, though. It’s only after a second that he realizes that they don’t _do_ this. Steve might’ve held Billy upright yesterday, might’ve actually killed men with him -- but they don’t _cuddle_.

As he starts to come to, little by little, feeling out any aches on his body, he realizes just how thoroughly he and Steve have become intertwined.

Steve's half twisted onto his belly, face smushed into a pillow, snoring light. He's got a leg hooked over one of Billy's, ankle behind his calf, and a heavy arm around his waist. Billy, at some point, snaked one of his hands up Steve's shirt in their sleep, his fingers splayed over soft skin, keeping Steve flush against him.

He doesn't know what time it is. There aren't any windows back here.

Billy should move. Should pull away.

He doesn’t want to.

His whole body aches, muscle-deep and pulsating. It’s unignorable, but not sharp -- just a constant throb.

The lingering press of his nightmares has his fingers twitching against Steve, has Billy breathing him in deep.

He should move, but he’s not going to, he’s decided. He’s allowing himself this moment, while Steve sleeps, to just indulge. He’s _earned_ it, by god. If getting shot and attacked and chased doesn’t amount to some sort of reward, he doesn’t think he can deal.

He squeezes Steve a little tighter. A little closer. Feels him come easy and hears him let out a little sound. It's soft, a breath of a thing, but it's a delight to hear. Sends a little _quake_ down to his belly.

God, Billy _wants_. It’s a desperate thing, low and hungry, gnawing at his gut. It was easier when it was an idle attraction, when he didn’t know Steve like this, when he didn’t know how _good_ he was, how strong, how fierce, how brave. When he didn’t know what Steve looked like in the mornings, or the way he radiated heat when he sleeps.

Now, it’s not easy at all.

Billy presses the palm of his hand to Steve’s spine, then trails his fingers so gently over his sleep-warm skin. Just an inch, just giving himself that much.

Steve _shudders_ in his sleep. Like he's sensitive. Like he's not used to being touched.

So Billy does it, again. Inches his fingers up the line of his back, just a little more. Just to see if Steve will do it again.

He does. It's lovely. He shudders, arm tightening around Billy's waist, and then he arches a little, in his sleep, lips parting to hitch out another breath. To make another sound, like a sleepy little moan.

It feels like Billy’s playing with fire. His heart races and his blood goes hot. The weight of the blankets on them suddenly feels suffocating, like he’s close to overheating at just the reality of Steve being so close, of Steve making all sorts of little noises into Billy’s hair.

Then, Steve's feet start to move. Just a little shuffle under the sheets. A slow flex and drag, the ankle behind Billy's calf hitching up behind his knee. Like a cat kneading at the bed, trying to get comfy.

It’s nice, Steve getting closer. But it does _very little_ to hide the fact Billy’s enjoying this closeness. A lot. And if Steve wakes up -- well. Maybe he won’t sound so pleased anymore.

So, Billy shifts. Schooching backwards and putting some space between the two of them, even if he basically has to put his hands on Steve’s torso to get the leverage, Steve’s holding onto him so tight. He yawns, loud and fake, like he’s just waking up. Giving himself, and Steve, the plausible deniability of waking up _normally_. Their feet are still tangled, but Billy writes that off as _fine_. An acceptable casualty.

Steve sounds so _disgruntled_ as he pulls away. Makes a noise like a whine, but lower. Billy feels his fingers trying to curl in at his side.

But then those big, brown eyes are fluttering open. Lazy. Like Steve's not really awake, yet, eyes half lidded.

"Stop _moving_ ," he mumbles.

“Wake up, sleeping beauty,” Billy says. It feels like they’ve been asleep for hours. “Donno what time it is.”

Their legs are still tangled, but at least Billy is stomach-down against the bed while he tries to get himself a little _under control._

He hears Steve suck in a sharp breath, eyes opening more fully and darting around. "Oh, shit," he says, propping himself up onto an elbow, blankets sliding down, hair sticking up.

He looks fucking _adorable_. Sleep-rumpled and groggy. It would be _so easy_ to just take back the distance Billy put between them and press Steve back down onto the mattress, against the rumpled cotton of the sheets. He could taste the warmth of Steve’s skin on his lips, smell the scent of sleep that he knows is still clinging to him. He imagines it, enticed and sleepy, eyes on the red line of Steve’s lips.

Steve is squinting at the watch on his wrist. He stares at it for a long time and then flops back onto the bed, a hand rubbing over his eyes.

"It's late," he says, voice rough. "Or we slept for twenty four hours."

“Feels like I could use it,” Billy says, with a yawn. This one isn’t forced, though. He _does_ still feel tired, but he’s _starving_ too. “Could also use some pizza. Maybe a shower.” Maybe more time pressed up close against Steve, too.

Steve smacks his lips a little, nose wrinkling up. "Teeth. I wanna brush my fucking teeth."

Then, his head lulls over and he jumps a little. Like he's just now realizing where he is and who is with him. The foot hooked behind Billy’s leg twitches and then flexes.

"Um," Steve says, blinking a few times, but he's not moving, not pulling away, just frozen there. "How-- how are you feeling? Your shoulder, I mean."

“It hurts, but it’s better.” Billy doesn’t shift away, either. Even though he’s twisted, in not the world’s most comfortable position. But pulling away would mean breaking contact, and he doesn’t want to do that. Besides -- if Steve’s not pulling away, then it’s _fine_ , right? It’s not weird, to have your legs tangled with a friend. “Sore everywhere. How’s your face?”

Steve reaches up, thumbing at his split lip and touching the tips of his fingers to his cheek. "Hurts. But I've had worse."

Billy kind of aches to reach out and thumb over Steve’s lip. He knows Steve would wince, that it would hurt, but that doesn’t kill the urge. He bites it back, though, chewing on his own tongue.

“Let’s try not to get attacked by Russians again,” Billy says. “What good is my superstrength, anyway, if I can’t keep you safe?”

Which feels -- a little heavy, maybe. But Billy’s tired and his brain-to-mouth filter is _shot_.

Steve laughs a little, though, twisting back onto his side and pillowing his unblemished cheek on a hand. "Don't gotta keep me safe. But it's a nice thought, super boy."

“Yeah? What if I want to?” Billy asks.

"Well, it's not like I could _stop_ you." Steve says. "You're the one with superstrength."

He's smiling at him, soft and a little amused. Their legs still tangled. Both of them still sleep mussed. It's not lost on Billy, how damn surreal this is.

“Yeah,” Billy says, and it’s like he’s not even aware of the word coming out of his mouth. “We should, uh. I mean, I’m hungry.”

"Oh," Steve says, nodding a little, and then he's pulling back. "Yeah, right. Food is good. Let's get you some food."

Billy shouldn’t miss the contact, but he does. So much.

“And then more sleep?” Billy asks, like maybe they can come back to this. Like maybe Steve’ll want to.

Steve groans a little. " _Please._ I feel like I need to sleep for a _year_."

And then he's climbing out of bed and heading over for where he shucked his jeans the night before. There's still a bit of blood on them, dried and stained brown, now. He pulls them up over his hips and glances over at Billy as he does up his fly.

"Maybe a shower, too. Take advantage of the calm."

“Yeah,” Billy says, nodding like he’s still catching up with all of it. Mostly, he’s just trying to tear his eyes off of Steve. “Yeah, I’ll uh, be right there.”

"Yeah, no worries." Steve nods, gesturing toward the door. "I'll go find the kitchen."

And then he's slipping out the door, carefully sliding it shut behind him.

In the silence he leaves in his wake, Billy flops down in the bed, eyes on the stark white of the ceiling.

God, he’s _so_ fucked.

***

When Billy finally makes it out to the main living space, he stops and stares. It's a room full of sleeping bodies.

All three kids are asleep together on a pull out. Curled up and tucked tight. Jonathan is out in one lazy boy and Robin in the other. On the couch, Joyce is propped up under a blanket, remote in her hand, sleeping easy with the TV flickering softly.

Billy creeps by, in the dim room, toward the light of the kitchen. When he gets there, Steve is tapping a glass to that guy Murray's and downing it with a wince and a hiss.

“Is that vodka?” Billy asks, still feeling like he hasn't woken up.

"Ah!" Murray turns to him, grin wide. "Our resident zombie. Come on in, I'll pour you a shot."

Steve is coughing a little. "Careful. He's a lightweight."

“ _You’re_ a fucking lightweight,” Billy says, knowing full well he was sprawled out on Steve’s kitchen table only a few days ago, spilling his guts to Robin, after not even that many beers. “Don’t go easy,” Billy says, as Murray’s pouring.

Steve is rolling his eyes as he pulls out a couple of cartons from the fridge. He sets them in front of Billy and lifts a brow.

"Apparently, we slept through Chinese." Steve says.

“Oh shit,” he’s way more interested in what looks like lo mein, but he’s _also_ interested in proving to Steve he’s not all _that_ much of a lightweight.

So, he takes the shot first, swallowing, swallowing down the burn of it. It’s good vodka, even though this guy seems to drink it like a fish, offering it up to two teenagers in his kitchen.

“Shit,” Billy says, and licks his lips.

“Oh, you’re one of _those_ guys,” Murray says, filling up his glass again.

“What does that even _mean?”_ Billy asks.

Murray just pats his back and then pours another glass for Steve. "So, you escaped from a secret Russian base."

“Apparently they just let me go when I didn’t have what they wanted. Used me as bait. Don’t think that really counts as _escaping_.”

Billy tips back his glass and then starts in on the lo mein with some chopsticks. God, he’s so fucking _hungry_.

Steve's watching him, leaning against the counter, arms half crossed with his glass held loosely in one hand. When Billy catches him staring, Steve looks away and downs his shot.

"Yes, well, that's because they like to think they're crafty," Murray says. "I was told you don't remember where the base was. That true?"

“Not sure. I ran from there to the mall, so it couldn’t have been too far. It was dark, raining. I was in the woods, but I wasn’t really -- with it. Didn’t see much, other than trees. Wasn’t paying attention to anything other than where I was going.”

He thinks, now, that he may have been drugged, at least a bit. To keep the pain down, to keep him influenced enough to keep his destination in his mind. Then again, he’s not sure. Even now, he feels the pull of Starcourt, the place he died. He tries, sometimes failingly, to not think about that too much.

“Did you want some?” Billy asks, holding the carton of lo mein out to Steve.

"Not hungry," Steve says with a little shake of his head, but accepts another heavy pour from Murray.

Murray's muttering something under his breath. "Could narrow it down… if we could figure out what _direction_ he came from… could work--"

"Mr. Bauman?" Steve frowns down at his half full glass.

"Oh, sorry, kid." Murray jerks back, setting the bottle down. "I'd nurse that."

Steve's eyeing his cup. "Yeah. I'll do that."

“Maybe you’ll be the lightweight tonight, huh?” Billy says, tucking back into his lo mein.

“If we got you back to the mall,” Murray says, “Do you think you’d be able to tell which direction you came from?”

Billy thinks about it for a second, then nods. Yeah, he definitely could do that.

"Good, good," Murray nods. "Until then, we can take at look at some of the abandoned properties. See if anything jogs your memory."

Steve is sipping tentatively at his glass. "You have those?"

Murray gives Steve a look. "Oh, kid. I've got everything. C'mon."

He's padding out in a rush, almost _excited_ , in the next second. Steve stares after him and then looks at Billy, brows pinched.

“What’s up, pretty boy?” Billy asks.

"Nothing, just--"

"Hey!" Murray pops his head around, clapping his hands. "Chop chop, boys. Let's go."

Billy rolls his eyes at Steve, then turns to follow Murray out of the room, the sounds of Steve following right behind him.

They trail down past the room they shared toward the end of the hall. Murray takes out a key and unlocks it before ushering them both in.

On the walls, there's charts of all kinds. Maps and article clippings. Pictures. Billy can't help but stare.

Murray rushes by, over to one of many filing cabinets. He holds up a finger and jerks a drawer open, thumbing through file after packed file.

Steve shuffles up next to Billy, blowing out a slow breath and taking another swallow from his glass. "Oh, boy."

“You drunk enough for this, yet?” Billy asks, bumping his shoulder with Steve’s. Then, he takes another bite of the food he brought with him.

"Nope," Steve pops the word past his lips. "You-- gonna be okay with all this? Trying to drag up memories?"

Billy shrugs. “I don’t see why I wouldn’t be fine.” He takes another bite, chews, then swallows. “Aw, Harrington, are you _worried_ about me?”

Steve tilts his head to look at him. "Of course, I am, Billy."

It's so soft. So fucking _earnest_.

It's worse when Steve touches a hand to his arm and squeezes. Touch lingering and then dropping away. He steps forward at Murray holds out a file triumphantly.

“Not to _interrupt,_ but do you think you can stop flirting for two seconds to look through these and see if anything jogs your memory?”

Billy balks, chest going tight.

“Uh,” he says, dumb.

When he chances a glance, Steve's red in the face. Worse than his usual flustering.

"We're not-- _he's_ not--" Steve trips over his tongue, gesturing between the two of them. "We're--"

"Kid. I don't care _what_ you are." Murray huffs, slapping the file down onto a desk and snapping his fingers. "C'mon. Let's go. We've got work to do."

Billy pushes past the tightness in his chest and opens the folder, spreading out the photos over the table. “Okay,” he says, trying to ignore just how red Steve is, and how embarrassed he feels. Like Murray can _see_ him, exposing him to the light. “So, what, you just want me to look at…,” he holds up two pictures and squints, “photos of dead trees and see if anything looks familiar?”

" _Abandoned property_ ," Murray corrects, squinting at him. "And yes. Unless you have something else you'd prefer to be doing?"

Billy feels himself go red, body going _hot_. “Uh,” he says, and then swallows. “No, this is...this is it.”

"Take a look then, see what you can dig up." Murray says, turning from him. "Now, _you._ You found our walking corpse?"

"Uh huh," Steve's voice sounds all wrong, pitched high, but Billy really can't look at him right now.

"Why were you at the mall that night?"

"I was, uh. Was gonna hotbox my car." Steve says like he's _confessing._

" _Youth,"_ Murray sighs, almost fond. "Walk me through what you remember. Come on. Have a seat. You need more vodka?"

"I'm-- No, I'm good, for now."

“You sure?” Billy asks. “Because I think I need some.”

“Good man,” Murray says. Then, he’s gone for the kitchen, leaving the two of them in the room together.

Billy moves the pictures around, some, unsure of what to say. Studying them, feeling a little too warm to meet Steve’s eyes right now.

He hears Steve take a breath. Is acutely aware of the creek of his chair as he shifts. Hears him breathe out and then _swallow_. Once. Twice. Downing what's in his glass.

" _Guh,"_ Steve shudders, rasping. "How's it-- how's it going over there?"

“There’s a lot of dead trees,” Billy says with a shrug. “Nothing interesting, nothing familiar.”

"Right," Steve says, then gets quiet.

When Billy looks, his gaze is cast down. He's picking at a hole in his jeans. Chewing on his lower lip. His face is still red.

Billy looks away.

He flips through the pictures. Sees a warehouse that _might_ be familiar, but doesn't strike the right chord. He shuffles past it, but sets it off to the side.

"Billy?"

“Yeah?” he says, looking up from the pictures.

"I, uh…" Steve scratches at his head and then rubs at his face. "About what he said--"

The door swings open.

"I have brought libations," Murray grins, waggling the bottle. "Let's get to work, shall we?"

***

Billy steps out of the shower, water dripping off of him and onto the dingy green bath mat underneath him. He’s still dizzy from the vodka Murray plied him with, still warm from some of his _insinuations_.

After Billy had sorted through all the photos and pulled out a few strong contenders for places he thought looked at the very least familiar, they had decided to call it quits, Billy and Steve both already yawning and fatigued. Steve had showered first, deciding he was too gross to go back to bed, and Billy had agreed on his own behalf.

Murray’s shower tiles are green, but not quite the same shade as the ones from the lab.

When Billy walks back into the bedroom, with a towel around his waist, Steve’s already in bed.

“Getting all the blood off feels good,” Billy says.

He stumbles a little, on his way in. Blames it on the alcohol, not on the way his eyes linger, distracted, on Steve’s bare stomach.

Steve's splayed out on the bed. His hair is still damp, skin pink from the heat of the shower. The covers are tucked down, but Steve's not under them. He's got nothing but a pair of sweats on, low on his hips, and Billy doesn't think he can take all of that skin next to him all night.

"Yeah," Steve says, eyes closed. "And the sweat."

“No _pajamas_ tonight, either?” Billy asks, because he can’t resist.

Steve's eyes flutter open and he props himself up onto his elbows. He stares at Billy for a second and then shakes his head.

"Nope," he says. "No pajamas."

“Scandalous,” Billy says. He’s probably looking at Steve for a hair too long, but he’s tipsy. His tolerance is, as Steve has loved to point out, kind of _shit_ right now. And vodka doesn’t fuck around.

"Is it?" Steve asks-- and it-- it's too _serious._ Like he _means_ it.

Billy laughs, he can’t help it. “No,” he says, with a wave of his hand. “Sleep naked for all I care.”

Which would be _great_ , really.

With that and no other warning, Billy drops his towel to the ground and kicks it to the side. He slides on his own sweatpants and then flops down in the bed next to Steve, mattress squeaking with the addition of his weight.

Steve's still propped up. Staring at him. Those dark eyes somehow _darker_ in this light.

"How's the shoulder?" he asks.

Billy turns to face him, to show him. The bandages are off. The skin looks raw and pink, but the wound itself, with the help of Karen’s stitches, has already knitted itself back together.

“Barely even a scratch,” Billy says.

It still hurts, but not nearly as much. He thinks his pain tolerance is a bit higher, now.

Steve twists over and reaches out. Touches his fingers to the area around the healing skin. Worries at the inside of his cheek.

"It looks good," Steve says, but his eyes are flitting up to Billy's.

Billy shivers and takes in a breath. It hurts, but not _badly_. The new skin’s just so sensitive and it lights up so easily under Steve’s touch.

“Yeah?” Billy says, covering the intake of his breath with a grin. “You think my gunshot wound’s hot?”

Steve's eyes narrow a little, hunting over his face. He pulls his hand back.

"Why do you do that?" he asks in a hush.

Billy raises his eyebrows. “Why do I do what?”

He tries not to miss the warmth of Steve’s touch.

"Turn everything into some kind of… I dunno." Steve frowns, gaze straying, lips pursing up. "Like you're flirting. But you're _not._ "

Billy flops back onto his back and hopes it at least partially obscures the way his face flushes. He feels _scared_ , a little bit, in an entirely different way than he did when the Russians came into Steve’s home.

“Jesus, whatever,” Billy says. “Maybe we should go to sleep.”

"Is it, like, a deflector or whatever? I think that's what Dustin calls it." Steve says. "Like, if you're uncomfortable you just--"

“Shut _up_ ,” Billy says, his whole body burning hot. Embarrassed. His stomach feels like it’s in knots. “You wanna just -- stop _talking_?”

Steve jerks back. Like Billy struck out with more than just his frightened words.

" _Sorry,"_ Steve spits. "Jesus, I was just _asking."_

And then he's turning over, pulling the covers up and over his shoulders, his back to Billy. The bed creaks and groans as moves, edging toward the farthest point.

_Away_ from Billy.

It _hurts_.

Billy wants nothing more than to reach out, to touch Steve’s bare shoulder with his fingers. To roll him back over and apologize. But Steve being mad _right now_ is better than him knowing the truth. Than ruining everything they’ve carefully built up together, now. Billy doesn’t think he can _do_ all of this without Steve.

His head spins.

Instead of apologizing, Billy rolls over, too, and tries to fall asleep.

***

He’s being held down, restrained. There’s people, shadows, above the cold table he’s on, talking to each other in low voices, in a language he doesn’t speak. He feels like he’s underwater, drowning -- but the lights are so bright, so blinding.

Tries to twist, tries to turn around from the press of their hands, the bite of the needles -- but he _can’t_. There’s nowhere to go, nowhere to run. His head spins with it, thoughts unfocused and drugged, spiraling out and out and away.

Billy wakes up gasping, sheets twisted around him, confining him. He pulls and tears at them, yanking until he’s free, until he’s breathing heavy into the darkness of the room.

He’s fine. He’s safe. He’s not _there_.

There's a hand, suddenly, on his shoulder. Someone touching him in the dark.

Billy moves fast.

He catches their wrist, twisting over and heaving his weight on top of them. Pinning them down-- one hand pressing their wrist to the bed, the other finding its place on their throat--

" _Billy!"_ Steve gasps up at him, eyes wide, laying sprawled out beneath him.

It takes Billy a second. A panting, chest-heaving, terrified second.

“Shit,” Billy breathes out, immediately letting up on the hand at Steve’s throat. “Shit, _Steve_.”

His heart is pounding so loudly in his ears. His body is _shaking_ with adrenaline.

Steve sucks in a little breath, staring up at him. He stays still, other than the twitch of his fingers where his hands lay by his head, like he's stopping himself from reaching up to him.

"It's okay," Steve says, soft, steady. "It's the middle of the night. We're in Illinois. Max and El and everybody are asleep in the other room. We're at Murray Bauman's house. We're safe. I'm here. You're safe, Billy."

Billy’s hand is still around one of Steve’s wrists. His other one, the one that did have Steve by the neck, just sits flat against Steve’s chest. He can feel Steve’s heartbeat underneath his touch. He’s still _straddling_ Steve, but he makes no move to get up, to move away.

“I’m sorry,” Billy says, and his breathing is a little less heavy, now. “Shit, I’m sorry.”

"It's okay," Steve says, again, hand covering Billy's where it's pressed over his heart. "It's okay, Billy. I'm here. You're _safe_."

“ _Fuck_ ,” Billy breathes out.

And then he just _crumples,_ falling forward to bury his face in the pillow next to Steve’s neck. He _could_ pull away, but he doesn’t want to. It’s dark and he can’t see Steve, and he wants the closeness -- no, he _needs_ it.

Steve hushes him, wrapping him up with his free arm. Billy keeps clutching at Steve's wrist; it's as close as he can get to holding his hand.

Steve lets him. _Holds_ him, pressed down by Billy's weight, cradling the base of his skull with one hand and turning his head to press his nose to Billy's temple. So he can hear Steve talk to him, soft and low.

"I got you," he's saying. "Not going anywhere; I got you, Billy."

Billy should apologize more, should pull back. But he doesn’t. He just _stays there_ , breathing against Steve’s neck, body still trembling, though the shakes are easing now that Steve’s palm is smoothing over his skin.

Eventually, his breathing evens out. Eventually, the fear fades into background noise.

"You okay?" Steve asked, rubbing circles into the center of his back.

Billy barks out a laugh.

“I guess?” he says. “I mean, I just tried to fucking _kill_ you, so _that’s_ something.”

Billy feels the heat of Steve's breath against the shell of his ear as he laughs, too. "You weren't gonna kill me. You stopped the second you realized it was me."

The tickle of Steve’s breath makes him _shiver_. “-- Yeah,” he says, soft. Barely even audible.

Steve hums and keeps petting over his back. It's good. Relaxing. A steady, constant touch. It's warm like Steve's body beneath his is warm; with sweat cooling on his skin, it's enough to keep him from getting _cold._

"Was it the Mind Flayer?" Steve asks. "Or the lab?"

“The lab,” Billy murmurs.

He shifts -- not to get up. But maybe to press his face a little more against Steve’s neck. Under the cover of darkness, it feels like something he can get away with, especially with Steve touching him like this.

Steve shudders and then shifts when he does. Billy almost pulls back when he hears Steve's breath catch.

But then Steve's twisting his pinned wrist out Billy's hold, sliding it under his hand, and slipping his fingers between Billy's. Squeezing as he drags his other hand up and down his spine.

"Wanna talk about it?" Steve asks.

Billy shivers at Steve’s touch. His own breath catches. His back _arches_.

“Not _really_ ,” he says.

"Okay," Steve nods, and Billy feels him press mouth to his temple-- almost a kiss-- and then feels him sigh. "I ever tell you about the time I got _super_ high with Robin in an underground bunker?"

Billy chuckles. “No?” Why would he have? But it’s not really that kind of question, so Billy says: “Tell me?”

"So, get this, the Russians catch us after we broke into their underground bunker, right?" Steve says, totally at ease under him, keeping up the steady drag of his fingers over Billy's back, idly tracing his spine, his ribs, his scars; his other hand flexes in Billy's, and then his thumb starts a steady back and forth over his hand. "They're trying to get us to tell them who we work for. I keep tellin' them _Scoops Ahoy_ , but they aren't buying it-- which, I mean, we were in our _uniforms_. You ever see how stupid those things were?"

“They were great,” Billy says. Because they were. They were cute as shit -- _not_ that Billy ever actually came up to Steve while he was wearing it. Billy just saw from afar. “So fucking great.”

Steve snorts a little. "Yeah, _okay._ So, we're not giving them the answers they want so they drug us up-- some kinda… truth serum or something. I dunno. Doesn't matter. What _does_ matter is that Rob and me? Spent the next couple hours tripping _balls._ Like, just high as shit, man. We, uh. We escaped when Dustin and Lucas' little sister-- Erica, you know her? Total brat, she's great-- We escaped and, like, laid low at the movie theater. Lemme just say, I finally watched _Back to the Future_ sober, and it makes _way_ more sense."

“ _Shit_ ,” Billy laughs. His fingers tighten in Steve's. “I'm sorry, that's _awful,_ but it's also -- god, I'm sure you were such a handful.”

He would've paid to see that. Or rather, he'd like to see that _now_. No Russians involved. Just Steve, off his head, trying to make sense of a movie that only makes about half-sense, anyway.

Steve chuckling with him. The movement jostling Billy a little.

"Definitely was," Steve says. "Ended up looking up at the lighted ceiling in the mall-- just, like, _staring._ Thought I was getting sucked up right into space."

“Must've been different shit than what they drugged me with in the car,” Billy muses. “Everything felt so -- far away.”

He doesn't remember seeing anything, but he does remember Steve. Trying to keep him close. Trying to anchor himself to Steve’s everything.

"Yeah, no. They injected this huge fucking bottle." Steve says-- and then his hand is trailing up, fingers pressing to Billy's neck, his pulse, right below his ear. "Right here. Burned at first. And then-- everything was just _really_ funny."

_Billy_ feels funny. Shit, with Steve's fingers right over his pulse point, he feels high, dizzy. He's lucky it's dark, that his head is up against Steve's neck, so Steve can't see his face. He _can't_ hide the catch in his breath, though, or the way he goes real still.

“Yeah,” Billy says. Barely trusting himself to manage one word.

Steve's fingertips linger there for a second longer and then shift. Gets his fingers in Billy's short, cropped hair. Drags his nails over his scalp.

"Anyway, it left this killer bruise for a couple of weeks," Steve says. "But sometimes, Robin and I go sit in the parking lot at the mall. Hotbox one of our cars and just… talk. Since-- I mean, we became best friends while tripping, so. Why not, right? It's why I was there that night. When I found you."

Sure, Steve's talking. But the words are going in one ear and out the other. Billy's paying _way_ more attention to the way Steve's fingers are dragging over his scalp, up and back, trailing close to Billy’s neck, enough to send goosebumps cascading down his spine, to get his heart thudding heavy in his chest.

“Uh huh,” Billy says, body going a little looser at Steve's touch, relaxing against him more for even more contact.

Steve's quiet for a second. He shifts again-- but doesn't wiggle free. Lets Billy lay there on top of him, but reaches blindly for the covers and pulls them back up and over them. Gets his fingers back in Billy's hair and trails them behind his right ear.

He squeezes at Billy's hand, tucking his nose against his temple, again.

"Feeling better?" he asks in a hush.

Billy sucks in a sharp breath as Steve's fingers brush over the shell of his ear. His touch is so soft, so gentle. Not like people ever touch Billy. His nerves sing with it.

“Yeah,” he says, quick, like he can somehow _cover_ for that. “Yeah, I'm good. I should, uh.”

Get off, he thinks. But how's he supposed to do that with Steve touching him like that, with Steve breathing against his skin in the dark? It's impossible.

"Sleep, Billy." Steve says, gripping the back of his neck, his nape. "It's fine. I'll be right here."

Billy takes a breath. When he lets it out, it shakes. It's a spike of fear, of uncertainty. But he's so _warm,_ so buzzed on adrenaline. He can't run from this; he has to face it. Or at least own up to it, because if he doesn't, soon, he's gonna start feeling like he's _lying_.

“ _Yeah_ , if you want me to sleep,” Billy says, “you're gonna have to stop touching me like that.”

He shifts a little, rocking his head, neck moving underneath the press of Steve's hand.

Steve's fingers twitch and then drop away. They settle somewhere on Billy's bicep instead, pulling a little, until Billy gets with the program, slipping his arm around Steve's waist as he arches up a little to make room for him.

Then, he rests his palm at the center of Billy's back.

"Better?" Steve asks, and Billy doesn't think he's imagining it's a little breathless.

Billy laughs, feeling half-stupid. It's not a full-out _rejection_ , because Steve's still very clearly there, and he's still clearly touching Billy, but it's something close to it.

“Sure,” he says, even though it's _not_ better, because he would've given anything for Steve to keep touching him just like that.

He shifts, then, moving so he's no longer actively straddling Steve, to shifting to one side of Steve. Still on top of his torso, but giving him more space -- elsewhere.

It's still _good_ , though. Still nice, being so close to Steve that Steve's warmth is keeping Billy from shivering. So close that Billy’s sure Steve can feel the hammering of Billy's heartbeat against his skin.

He's still got his arm around Steve's waist. Still got Steve's fingers splayed over his back. Still got their hands locked, fingers knotted together. Impossibly close.

Steve sighs. "Just… sleep, Billy. You need it. Stay. Sleep. I'll anchor you."

Billy nods, face still at Steve's neck.

“Okay,” he says. “Thanks.” Because he means it.

He's exhausted, but it still takes a long time for sleep to pull him under.

***

When Billy wakes this time, he knows exactly where he is and who he's with. It's unmistakable, Steve Harrington's hand in his.

Steve's got Billy's hand practically cradled to his chest, half turned into Billy in the night. Holding his hand close, like it's something precious. His skin smells warm, like fresh linens and soap. His lips are parted on his breath. Lashes fanned against his cheeks.

He's _beautiful._

Billy doesn't pull away. His body is pressed flush against Steve, the two of them creating a ball of warmth underneath the covers.

He can't help it. The moment is just too perfect.

Billy shifts just a little and presses his lips to Steve's shoulder. If Steve wakes up and catches him, at least Billy can pretend he was asleep. Dreaming.

His skin is just as warm against his mouth as he thought it would be. He lingers there, in that welcoming haze of heat.

Steve shudders, head lulling over a little. Billy wants to kiss up the line of his throat. Wants to bite at his jaw. Wants to tangle his fingers in Steve's hair, tilt his head back, and taste his mouth.

The desire hits him hard, leaves him breathless.

God, he _wants_.

Maybe if he just -- Billy swallows as he moves, shifting until his face presses up against Steve's neck, breathing him in, splaying his fingers over Steve’s chest.

Steve's breath catches. Billy hears it; he _feels it_. The way the rise and fall of Steve's chest stutters, falters, and then _changes._ Goes from deep and steady to something shallow and measured.

_He's awake_ , Billy realizes. And then, Steve's tilting his head over, making more room.

_Fuck_ , he thinks. He should get up; move. Shouldn't indulge himself like this.

Instead, Billy just makes a noise, like he's _asleep._ Soft and dreamy.

He feels Steve go still. Feels the muscles under his skin lock up. He thinks Steve knows, thinks he's about to shove him away, and feels a bite of panic low in his gut.

But then Steve's slumping into the bed. Body going loose. He hears Steve huff out a laugh; it sounds so bitter it rings like a sob.

Then, there's a hand on the back of his neck, and Steve's pressing his mouth to the crown of his head. Then, Steve is carefully untangling from him, and Billy's too stunned to _speak_ let alone _move._

He can't. He _can't_ let Steve go, though.

Steve's almost out of his grip before Billy moves. He doesn't know what he's doing when he reaches out and wraps his arms fully around Steve and tugs him back in, back to Billy’s chest.

“Back to sleep,” Billy murmurs, sounding way more sleepy than he actually is.

Steve goes so still it's like he's playing possum. He's rigid, holding his breath, clutching at Billy's wrists where his arms are wrapped around him tight.

"Billy?" he breathes, voice _shaking_. "How long have you been awake?"

Billy swallows. He doesn't know what the _right_ answer is.

“Just woke up,” he murmurs, pressing his face to the back of Steve's neck. That was fine last night, so it's fine now, right?

Steve shudders, curling up a bit, knees drawing up toward his chest as he clings to Billy's wrists. "Okay."

“This okay?” Billy asks, voice muffled in the skin at the back of Steve's neck, Steve's hair tickling his nose.

Steve hesitates. Then smoothes his hands over the backs of Billy's. Fingers laying between his.

" _Yes,"_ he whispers, like he's afraid he'll break the moment.

Billy feels like his heart is going to pound straight out of his chest. He closes his eyes, feeling safe here, feeling _hidden_.

“You sleep okay?” Billy asks with a yawn.

Steve laughs a little; it sounds much nicer, now. Much less wretched.

Steve's thumb starts idly stroking back and forth over his hand.

"Pretty okay," Steve says. "But this one asshole I know kept trying to squish me."

He doesn't _get_ it. He doesn't know what Steve wants, but has enough of an idea of what he doesn't want -- and that's fine, but it's like it doesn't quite match up. This? Cuddling so close and wrapped up in each other? Billy's never had this without sex.

“Yeah?” Billy says. “That right?”

He lets his lips graze over Steve's skin as he talks, just because he can, because he _wants_ , but that's it. He doesn't kiss him the way that he wants.

"Yeah," Steve shivers; he sounds punched out, voice low and whisper soft. "I, uh. I didn't actually mind, though."

His fingers curl into Billy's properly, dragging Billy's arms tighter around himself.

"I don't-- I don't know how this works," Steve confesses, words breaking a little in the middle. "I don't, uhm… do I have my wires crossed here, or…?"

Billy's breath catches. His heart skips in his chest. His fingertips graze over the hair on Steve's chest, twitching.

“I mean,” Billy says, voice rough. “Uh. It depends on which wires…”

Steve's breath goes shallow. "The ones where I want you to kiss me. And where I think you want to kiss me, too."

At that, Billy goes hot. He presses his lips to Steve's neck, once, and then pulls back.

“I do,” Billy says, voice catching. “God, I do, I --”

His words are cut off when there's a pounding at the door.

“Hey losers, you've been sleeping for _forever_ , you gotta get up!”

Max.

Steve startles in his arms. He pulls a hand free to check the time on his watch and curses.

"She's right," Steve says, twisting a little, to look at him.

His face is a lovely shade of red. The color warms across his cheeks and his nose. His mouth is _tauntingly_ close.

And Billy can _have it._ He could have it _right now._

" _Hey!"_ Max pounds so hard on the sliding door that it rattles. "You're gonna miss breakfast!"

Billy groans, head falling forward. Knocking his forehead against Steve's shoulder.

Steve's laughing. "I think she's gonna break down the door."

“I can _hear_ you!” Max shouts.

“Fuck,” Billy says, pressing his mouth to Steve's neck one last time. “Rain check?”

Steve's smile is blinding. "Rain check."


	11. x

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are a little easier, away from the press of too many people crammed into a paranoid man's bunker. The key is just finding the space.

Steve's _buzzing._ It's like he's got something under his skin, bright and burning, trying to burst right out of his chest.

He can't stop stealing glances at Billy and he _knows_ he's being obvious.

He just can't help it. His _face_ hurts, he keeps smiling so much, just to himself. Giddy and secretive. Robin has elbowed him at least _twice,_ though, so.

 _God_ , he hopes he's not being _that_ obvious.

Billy is over by Max. Trying to look at pictures Murray has put down on the table.

Max keeps snapping at Billy, shoving at him. Because clearly he’s a little distracted, too.

“Going to need you two to stop making eyes at each other and get over it,” Murray says.

Steve buries his face in his hands. He thinks he hears Jonathan laugh as Will asks: "Get over what _?"_

"Anybody need something to drink?" Steve shoots to his feet and doesn't wait for a reply.

He finds Joyce in the kitchen area, where she’s cooking up a big batch of scrambled eggs and sausage. She just smiles at him and pushes a pitcher of orange juice toward him. It’s the frozen kind, still dissolving from concentrate, a wooden spoon sticking out of the top.

“Maybe start with this instead of vodka,” she says.

Steve nods and gives the pitcher a stir, helping speed up the melting process.

He watches the giant chunk of fruit juice and pulp swirl around in the water, bobbing a bit as he stirs. He doesn't realize how bad he's zoned out until Joyce nudges him.

"You okay, sweetie?" She asks with a little frown.

"Oh, yeah, I'm… I'm fine." Steve says.

“Penny for your thoughts?” she asks, as she hands him a potato roll. She doesn’t look judgemental, though, as Steve looks at her to try and gauge what she’s thinking. Besides, it’s not like anybody _knows_ , right?

Steve snorts a little, taking a bite and swallowing it down; savoring the minute it gives him to think as he watches the juice swirl.

He thinks about this morning. About waking with Billy's mouth pressed to his pulse, thinking: _this is it_ \--

Only for Billy to snuffle and huff, _asleep_ , and Steve had felt so _stupid_. So ridiculously _stupid_. He'd wanted to claw out of his own goddamn skin; he hated himself and Robin and the hope in his chest _so much_.

But when Steve had drawn away, Billy had pulled him back. Had held him close. Had kissed his neck. And Steve _had_ to know. He _had_ to know if Billy _wanted this_ or if Steve just kept reading this whole thing _wrong_.

And then Billy had said _yes_.

"I mean, it's not _super_ important," Steve says, after a moment. "It's just. You ever think something will never happen and then it _does_ and you just… don't know what to do?"

Joyce nods. She smiles, but it looks a little sad around the edges.

“I do.” She lets out a soft breath, not quite a sigh but something similar. “I know that sometimes it’s...easy to be paralized by the unknown or by uncertainty. And that’s okay,” she says. “It’s only human to be scared.”

Steve hums. "Yeah, but. But I don't _want_ to be scared. I just… am."

“Honey, no one wants to be scared. No one ever plans to be.” She reaches over and squeezes his shoulder. “Sometimes, the more you think about something, the more scary it becomes. And you’ll think yourself into inertia. And that’s _fine_ , but you also might let whatever it is slip away.”

Her face pinches a little, at that. Like she's thinking about something. Someone.

Steve can take a guess.

"I don't want him to slip away," Steve says in a hush, throat tight, stomach dropping just at the _thought._

She squeezes his shoulder again. “I don’t think he’s going anywhere.”

Steve wants to ask how she knows -- but clearly Murray sees it, and Joyce does have two sons. She’s not blind, and Steve feels like he’s looking at Billy _all the time_. There’s no way he can hide it.

Still, he flushes a little. Feels hot, under his clothes. Like it's sticking to him.

And as much as Steve would like to think Billy won't go anywhere-- he's already tried to leave once. And that's not even accounting for the Russians. For the danger.

"Right," Steve nods.

She passes him a glass and he pours himself some icy orange juice.

“If you want to talk about it,” Joyce says. “I’m here. I can’t tell you I’ll give you the _best_ advice, but I want you to know that I’m here for you.”

"Thanks, Ms. Byers." Steve says, sipping his juice. "I might take you up on that."

He feels like a kid. Or, like, maybe he's _allowed_ to be a kid when she's around.

Sometimes it feels like all of them had to grow up way too fast.

“Hey,” Max says, popping her head into the kitchen. “Is breakfast soon? Because we need to start coming up with, like, a _plan_.”

"Max," Steve chides. "You wanna come and cook for half a dozen people or do you wanna keep bitching?"

“I’m not _bitching_ ,” she says, arms crossed. “But Billy’s getting hungry."

Steve huffs a little. "Billy's always hungry, Max."

Joyce pinches at him. "It's okay. Everyone can start coming and serving up. You wanna watch these eggs for me Steve?"

"Yeah, I got it," Steve nods.

He watches the eggs, then serves them up as everyone comes into the kitchen, grabbing paper plates to load up with rolls, sausage, and eggs. He shoves at Robin when she comes past, if only because she won’t stop smiling at him, grinning like she _knows_ something, even though she _doesn’t_ , because nothing actually happened.

Billy follows Jonathan up to the stove, and he looks sleep-rumpled and soft, eyes still half-closed like he never quite woke up.

“You doing okay there, pretty boy?” Billy asks.

Steve feels his entire body flood with heat. Prickling across his scalp, tingling at his fingertips. He chokes on it a little.

He can't help but wonder _how long_ Billy's actually meant it when he's called him _pretty boy._ If he's been wanting, as badly as he sounded in bed earlier, this _entire time._

Steve would _die_ if he had to wait that long.

"Uh huh," he says, a bit breathless. "You want extra?"

Steve watches as Billy smirks. His whole face starts to bloom with something that Steve isn’t used to seeing on Billy’s face, now -- a sort of glowing confidence that sparks somewhere close to where he used to be. The old Billy, confident and self-confident and strong. It lacks some of the sharpness that used to be there, though, the meanness.

“You offering to give me extra?” Billy asks, all sugar sweet.

"Max said you were hungry," Steve blurts and wonders where the fuck _any_ of his smooth went. "So. Yes."

“This is _worse_ than yesterday,” says a voice from behind Billy.

Steve watches as Billy stiffens as Murray pushes forward. He chews on the inside of his cheek as Murray serves himself up some sausage and then holds his plate out for eggs.

Steve plops a spoonful down onto it.

"Seriously," Murray says, gesturing between them with a fork. "This is appalling. You're gonna give me an ulcer. I'm gonna leave this kitchen and pray to _god_ you two figure something out."

Billy’s frozen in place when Murray leaves, standing in front of Steve like a statue. He looks scared, like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like he’s braced, expecting someone to start throwing punches. Steve doesn’t exactly blame him, either. He didn’t expect Joyce to be so supportive and open, even though he’s never known her to be anything but that. It’s still a surprise.

“I didn’t think it was that obvious,” is all Billy says, a little sheepish.

Steve huffs out a little breath, face still burning. "Yeah. Uh. Me either."

“So,” Billy says.

Steve watches him swallow, adam’s apple bobbing. He nods once, still looking flustered and a little lost, and then moves on, going to grab a few rolls from the bag and wandering out, presumably, back to the living room where everyone else is.

Steve stares after him for a long moment. He can't help but feel a pang of disappointment curl in his stomach.

Slumping against the edge of the stove, he sighs and pushes the eggs around in the pan idly.

***

Steve doesn’t see much of Billy until later in the afternoon, after they’ve eaten, after Billy has scoured over countless pictures Murray had laid out in front of him. There’s a stack of pictures he thinks look familiar, but by the time he’s done, he looks tired and worn out, eyes a little glazed over. Steve’s honestly not sure how he did it -- all the pictures look the same, to him. All trees and abandoned lots. And Billy had been running around in the rain at night -- he couldn't have seen _much_.

Before _that,_ El and Will had kept Steve company while Billy sat with Murray and detailed everything he could remember about his time at the lab.

So, it’s not really a surprise when Steve looks up and just -- doesn’t see Billy.

He’s not in the living room, not in the kitchen, and not in the bedroom, which is where Steve checks last.

And yeah, it’s _not_ his house, but Steve can’t help but venture a little farther into Murray’s space, because he’s _concerned_ , because Billy’s _gone_. And it’s way worse than him being _outside_.

It’s in the study, in a closet, that he finds the ladder that leads up into the darkness.

Climbing it is hard, because his whole body is sore and it complains the entire time, but Steve does it anyway, pushes through the way his muscles ache as he has to hold on and pop the hatch at the top.

Of course Murray would have another exit in his bunker. He’d never allow himself no escape route.

The hatch is unlocked -- so that’s a good sign, Steve thinks.

He’s not surprised to find Billy up there, spread out on his back on the flat surface of the roof, one arm pillowed behind his head. There’s a high lip around the edge of it for presumably more privacy, and even a couple worn beach chairs off in a corner.

Steve hesitates. It looks an awful lot like Billy came out here to be alone. Steve's not exactly sure how welcome he is.

But then he remembers what Joyce said to him in the kitchen.

"Hey," he calls, hovering there in the in between. "You want company? I've got smokes."

“Yeah,” Billy says, quiet. “C’mere.”

He doesn’t even spare a glance back at Steve, just keeps his eyes closed toward the sky.

Steve climbs out, bringing his long legs with him, shutting the hatch with some amount of care. He pads over and plops down, pulling out the pack and his dinky little lighter, tapping out a cigarette. He holds it to his mouth and lights it before passing it over.

"Here," he says.

Billy doesn’t take it, though.

He just shifts and sets his head down on Steve’s lap and lets out a long sigh. Steve stares down at him, not quite sure what to do with himself.

He settles, after a second, placing the filter between his lips and dragging as he sets his hand onto Billy's forehead. He's a little warm, but not alarmingly so. Steve pushes the little wisps of his hair back and away, thumbing at the scar on his brow.

"You okay?" he asks.

Billy nods and then just leans into Steve’s touch, until Steve’s palm is just cupping his head, supporting him. Like this, Billy looks _soft_. No hint of any of his hard edges, everything dulled by sleep.

“Worn out,” he says. “Don’t really like thinking about that shit, and everyone keeps _talking_ at me. There’s, like, fifty people in this crazy asshole’s bunker.”

Steve can't help but snort, biting on the inner part of his lips to keep from properly laughing. He scratches, just a little, at Billy's scalp; remembers how that had him going heavy on top of him last night.

He drags on his cigarette. "Want me to distract you, again?"

At that, one of Billy’s eyes open, gifting Steve with a hint of that beautiful blue. He’s smiling, an upside-down smirk, looking up at Steve.

“Yeah, how you gonna do that, pretty boy?”

"I can think of a couple things," Steve says, a low flutter in his belly. "I ever tell you about the time your sister and Dustin and Lucas nearly got eaten by demodogs?"

Billy laughs, a low and quiet thing. “No, but that’s not _really_ what I was aiming for.”

Steve watches as he opens both of his eyes, as his tongue darts out just slightly to wet his lips, leaving them shiny with spit.

"Oh?" Steve asks, a thrum of delight rushing through him; he's surprised his fingers are trembling as he drags from the cigarette again, breathing his words out like smoke. "You were aiming for something?"

Billy’s throat works as he swallows, his eyes darting over Steve’s face as he studies him from upside down. Then, Billy’s pushing himself up and away from Steve’s lap, shifting until he’s on his knees in front of Steve, looking so tired and worn and so achingly _hopeful_.

“I was really hoping I could kiss you,” Billy says. “If that’s still on the table.”

Steve feels a bit like Billy just stole the breath right out of his lungs. "Yeah. Yeah, definitely still on the table."

“Yeah?” Billy asks, and then he’s reaching out and plucking the cigarette from between Steve’s fingers to stub it out against the roof.

After that, Billy moves slowly, like he’s afraid Steve is gonna spook. Which is absurd, because Steve’s the one who mentioned wanting to kiss Billy and Billy’s the one who was _shot_ , and yet Billy’s still acting like Steve’s the fragile one, here. But Steve can’t find the words to complain, because Billy hands cup his cheeks and then he’s leaning forward, so gently, and pressing his lips, cool from the November air, to Steve’s.

It's perfect.

It's sweet. Much sweeter than Steve pictured it when he let himself actually picture it. Billy's mouth presses so tentatively to his, slants against his like two puzzle pieces falling into place. His hands are big and warm on his face, cradling it, like Steve might withdraw, thumbs dragging over his cheeks.

It's _perfect._

Steve makes a soft sound, from the back of his throat and leans forward, reaches up. Curls his fingers around Billy's wrists and lets his eyes fall heavy.

Briefly, Steve realizes that kissing a boy isn’t nearly as weird as he thought it would be. It’s like kissing a girl, really, except Billy’s stubble scratches against Steve’s skin.

The kiss doesn’t stay as tentative as it had started, though. Billy makes a noise, like a growl, and presses forward a little bit harder, deepening the kiss like he’s hungry for it, starving. And maybe he is.

No, he definitely is, Steve thinks, as Billy _moves,_ shifting forward until he’s straddling Steve, a knee on either side of him, like he had been last night.

Steve jerks a little. His skin jumps, heart lurching, as Billy settles his weight over his thighs. His hands fly to Billy's hips, gripping, and he gasps against his mouth.

He can feel Billy smile against his lips, can feel the way it shapes the kiss. It’s deep and warm, and a shiver slides down Steve’s back as one of Billy’s hands shifts into Steve’s hair.

The slide of Billy's tongue against his is slick. Fluid and lazy. Steve feels something like a thread tug in his ribcage-- a thrill thrumming along his bones. His head tips back as Billy's tongue dips deeper; Steve's helpless to do anything but _moan._ Billy eats it up, licks it right out of Steve's mouth.

Steve can practically taste the way Billy wants him, the ferocity of it. His whole body heats up with it, skin aflame and nerves alight.

Billy groans against his mouth, a low, needy sound, breath going a little heavier with every passing second.

It's a _lot_. It's _too much._

Steve pulls away with a gasp, sucking breath after breath into his lungs. "Billy--"

Billy's eyes are dark, full of desire. He leans forward and licks a stripe up Steve's neck.

Steve's entire body _jolts._ Like an electric current passed from one end to the next. He clutches at Billy's shirt, fingers fisting in the fabric.

" _Billy."_

“Yeah, baby?” Billy says, mouthing against Steve's neck.

Steve feels Billy's teeth against his pulse and his eyes roll back. "Uhh. Um, you… I, uh…"

“Use your words,” Billy says, pressing his lips over Steve's pulse point. “Tell me what you want. Anything, baby.”

There's a rush, a pull, at his sternum. Below his navel. In his groin. Wicked hot; seering and _singing_ across his nerves.

" _Fuck,"_ Steve shudders, toes curling, totally breathless and _dizzy_ with how much he _likes that_. "Slow. Billy. _Slow--_ slow down?"

Billy freezes. Then, pulls back. His eyes are still dark as he looks at Steve, puzzled, like he's trying to figure out what's going on in Steve's head.

“Slow down, or stop?” he asks.

Steve stares up at him, hands on his waist, lips tingling. He smiles, a little, at the concern creasing Billy's brow. He squeezes at Billy's sides, reassuring, gentle.

"Slow down," Steve says; breathes, really, face burning as he admits, "this is a little new to me."

For a second, Billy looks confused. Steve wonders if Billy thought Steve had been with guys before, before he realizes: Billy might not know how to go _slow_.

But that doesn't mean he doesn't _try._

He doesn't get off Steve's lap, but he does ease off a bit. He presses one last kiss to Steve's neck before pulling back to kiss Steve on the lips. Slow. Gentle.

Steve hums, easing into it. He reaches up, cradling Billy's jaw with a hand, and tilting his head as he breaks one kiss and leans into another. Chaste little things. Their noses bumping.

Billy isn’t exactly slow on the uptake, but he clearly isn’t used to going slow or being soft. _Gentle_ isn’t exactly the first thing that comes to mind when Steve thinks _Billy Hargrove_ , but clearly Billy is giving his all on this, with the way his kisses have shifted and his touches have lightened. There’s something tender about it, an undercurrent of something that feels breakable, but light. Something that Steve himself wants to be careful with.

“You,” Billy breathes against his lips before kissing him a little deeper, like he just can’t help himself.

"Me?" Steve asks, shuddering as Billy feeds him another kiss-- then another-- then _another--_ making his head _spin._

“Wanted you for so long,” Billy murmurs.

He slides his mouth away from Steve’s again, moving to his throat to press heated kisses there. Slow and nice, not as urgent as before. Like maybe he’s actually reigning himself in -- or trying, anyway.

Steve's head lulls back. He lets his hands slide-- dragging them down to the chorded muscle of Billy's thighs. Lets his fingers curl in to the denim.

Billy's words sink in and light Steve up. Have him glowing, from the inside. His chest warm, his head heavy.

"You did?" Steve asks.

It feels _different_. Girls-- girls have never kissed down his throat like this. He's never felt the drag of scruff over his skin. Never had someone bite at his pulse in a way that makes him turn to putty.

Billy holds him up, brackets him in, with a hand on the back of Steve’s neck. And even though Billy’s straddling him, leaning on him, Steve feels anchored. Steadied against something so unyieldingly _solid_.

“Yeah,” Billy says, and seals another kiss over Steve’s adam’s apple. “I wanted you so bad. Didn’t _ever_ let myself think about this. Thought it was -- out of reach.”

"Didn't--" Steve chokes back a moan; he _likes_ how big Billy's hands feel, how easily he weighs him down. "Didn't know it was an _option_."

Steve can’t see it, but he can _feel_ Billy smile against his skin. “No one was supposed to know,” he says. “Guess I’m bad at keeping secrets.”

"No," Steve shakes his head a little. "I just-- I didn't-- before you, I didn't--"

_I hadn't thought about it. I hadn't been tempted._

Billy laughs, but it’s a quiet little thing. “I figured. Small town Indiana? Not exactly a progressive place.”

Steve gets a hand at Billy's nape. "Yeah. And then you rolled in like a hurricane."

Billy loosens a little under Steve’s touch, relaxing. Like maybe some of the heat has rolled out of him, dissipated after Steve asked him to slow down. “And then I rolled in and saw the hottest fucking guy in this corn-fed town and couldn’t take my eyes off him.”

Steve _blushes_. His nose, his cheeks, his ears, his neck-- he feels them all flood with heat.

"That's-- I'm not-- _jesus_ , Billy."

Billy pulls back just to look at him, a pleased grin settling in on his face.

“You definitely are. I mean, are you _complaining_?”

" _No_ , but--" Steve's not sure how to put it in _words_ , that when Billy says stuff like that, it makes him feel like vibrating right out of his skin. "You can't just _say_ that."

A small frown twitches at the corner of Billy’s lips. “Well, yeah, not to anyone _else_ , but --” He looks confused, a crease forming between his eyebrows. “Are you going to, like, freak out about this?”

" _No_ , I already did that." Steve huffs.

“Then why can’t I say it?”

Steve half buries his face in one of his hands, a heavy breath leaving him. "It-- it just makes me feel… I dunno. It just… makes me _feel_ , okay?"

Billy frowns. “Is this like you wanting to slow down, or is this you just being an idiot who doesn’t know how to take a compliment?”

Steve mumbles against his palm, pressing his face between his hands. He wants the earth to open up and _swallow_ him.

There’s warm fingers prying his hands from his mouth and his face, and then Billy’s tipping Steve’s head up to look at him. Billy looks _concerned_ , which would be cute, if Steve didn’t feel so goddamn embarrassed.

“You gotta talk to me, baby,” Billy says.

Steve feels the threads of his heart pull taut. "The latter," he breathes. "Don't know how to take a compliment from you."

Billy looks a little relieved at that, smile finding its way back onto his face. “Well okay. I mean, I know I’m hot, but that makes me kind of the _authority_ here, so you’re just gonna have to learn how to deal.”

"Or you could _not_ ," Steve says, letting Billy tilt his face up more, watching as that blue haze burns over his own features. "Compliment me. I don't-- you don't, like, _need_ to. I already like you."

Billy pulls back a bit, like he’s _startled_ , hands lightening their touch against Steve’s skin. “I’m not -- doing it to make you _like_ me.”

Steve doesn't really _get that._ He's used to the schmoozing, the pandering, of country clubs and his parents' vapid friends trading flattery like a currency. He could’ve sworn Billy did the same, with all of the things he says.

"Um." Steve nods a little. "Okay."

“I mean, I won’t, if it makes you uncomfortable,” Billy says, fingers tracing gentle lines over Steve’s cheeks, his jaw. Touch light enough that it sends shivers down his spine. “But I’m still thinking it.”

Steve's eyes flutter shut, head tipping toward the ghost of Billy's touch. He tries to process it, the idea of Billy Hargrove thinking he's hot. The _hottest_.

Pretty.

It makes him want to _squirm._

"Just not used to it, that's all." Steve mutters, meeting his gaze again. "Not-- not from someone like _you_ , you know? Someone I… yeah. It's all new, remember?"

“A _guy_?” Billy asks. He leans forward and presses a kiss to the corner of Steve’s mouth. “Yeah, I know. It’s okay. We can go as slow as you want.”

It _should_ sound like a _line_. It _is_ ; Steve’s said the same goddamn thing countless times. But. Billy’s tone is cautious and his eyes look sincere. Steve _believes_ him, even though he’s not entirely sure he should.

"That and you're hot like burning," Steve says, turning his head to catch Billy's mouth for a brief, sweet moment. "And I like you. Which is _wacky_."

“You’ve dated hot chicks,” Billy says, when he pulls back. “And I heard you liked them, too.”

" _Yeah_ ," Steve says, bobbing his head. "Robin said-- she said I could like both. I'm just… wrapping my head around that."

He lets his hands settle on Billy's thighs again. Strokes up, light, letting his gaze stray before looking back up at Billy.

"I just knew I really wanted to kiss you."

“Robin said, huh?” Billy smiles. “Robin got me drunk and interrogated me about how long I’d -- how long I’d thought you were hot.”

"Robin _knew_?"

Billy shrugs. “Clearly. I probably looked at you too much.” He steals another kiss. “It’s _really_ hard not to.”

"I mean," Steve leans after him when he pulls away, trying to catch his mouth, cheeks warming _again._ "Same. You're-- _devastatingly_ good looking."

“Mm, now? Or did you look before?”

"I--" Steve blinks a few times, pulling back to meet Billy's gaze. "Both? Now, but, I mean, I don't think I was really… conscious of it? But."

 _But_ he thinks about Billy on Halloween. Glistening and flush. Thinks about the basketball court and the locker rooms. Thinks about his gaze straying over his shoulders and down his chest.

He feels a low, pulsing heat in his stomach when he thinks about the showers.

"But I looked," Steve confesses. "Before."

Billy’s moves a little, shifting. His fingers curl at Steve’s waist, in the fabric of his shirt.

“That’s because I’m _real_ easy on the eyes,” Billy says. He wets his lips leans forward, ghosting his lips over Steve’s. “No one could blame you.”

"No," Steve breathes, tilting his head over to offer up his mouth better, fingers trailing up to Billy's hips. "No one could blame me."

Billy gives him what he wants, what he’s asking for. A kiss so sweet that a year ago, he never would’ve believed it was Billy Hargrove giving it to him.

***

The rest of the day, while not _smooth_ , feels a little less _heavy._ Like the anticipation of what Billy and Steve had started that morning had been a physical _weight_ , filling the house, stifling their movement.

It's easier to move, now. To _breathe._

Steve had spent the rest of the afternoon on the floor in front of the couch, El tugging at his hair, as she frowned and watched Max plait Robin's. Billy and Jonathan had laughed at him, but Will kept sneaking glances over like he wanted to join Max and El's experiments well into the evening.

It was only when Joyce's voice started to carry down the hall that Steve decided maybe something else was in order. Especially with the way Billy kept cringing.

"Dinner?" he asks. "Anyone wanna help?"

Both Will and El perk. "I can," El says. "Joyce has been teaching me."

"Okay," Steve nods, and then pointedly looks at Max. "Why don't you put on a movie?"

Max nods and Robin frowns. “What, you don’t like my taste in movies?”

Unfortunately, Steve knows she _or_ Jonathan would put on something from Murray’s collection that’s not necessarily appropriate for the mood. No one wants to watch military conspiracy documentaries, right now.

Steve follows El and Will into the kitchen. Billy hovers a little bit behind them, but ends up shifting where he’s sitting so he’s not _quite_ in the kitchen, but sort of hovering on the outskirts of it.

“What’s for dinner, then?” El asks.

Steve has _no_ idea, but Murray had done a large grocery run earlier, so he sticks his head in the fridge to survey the contents. He tilts his head and pulls out a pack of bacon and a couple tomatoes.

"How do you feel about soup?" he asks. "I think I spotted some beans. We could make _pasta e fagioli."_

Both of the kids nod, enthusiastic.

Will grabs some beans from the store room while Steve starts cutting onion and garlic. He gives the tomato and another cutting board to El.

Distantly, he hears Murray raise his voice in excitement, something about land deeds and public records. Something about _necessary risks._

Steve winces and then clears his throat. "Usually, for this recipe, you'd use pancetta. It's kinda like bacon but nicer. We can use the bacon as a substitute."

El frowns. "You can do that? Replace things?"

"If you know what you're doing," Steve nods and moves over to the stove, lighting a burner with a soup pot over it and drizzling in the olive oil. "I make this every winter. It's really good at warming you up. Comfort food."

"Comfort food?"

"Yeah. Like you and your eggos." Steve wasn't really expecting to turn this into much of a lesson; he was just trying to talk over the yelling. He never liked hearing people argue. "Will, can you cut up about half that package? Into chunks."

Will nods and sets to work on the bacon. "So, you cook a lot?"

"Yeah," Steve shrugs. "You can only eat so much pizza, you know?"

Steve watches as the kids work in the kitchen, following his instructions pretty well for people who haven’t cooked much before. When he’s not giving instructions, Steve talks -- about cooking in general and about various techniques and about his favorite things to make. It fills up the space and the time, and almost -- but not quite -- drowns out the sounds of Joyce and Murray talking about _going back to Hawkins_.

Steve can’t hear everything, but the words are getting louder, more animated and argumentative. And Billy, from where he’s sitting at the table, keeps getting more and more uncomfortable. His eyes are on Steve and Will and El, but his attention clearly isn’t, because Steve is watching his shoulders tense and his eyes narrow. And even though Steve can’t hear every word, _Billy_ probably can.

"What's a _nonna?"_ El asks as they finish adding the pasta to the pot and Steve places the lid over top.

Steve shrugs. "It's my grandma. My mom's mom."

"She taught you all this?" Will asks.

"Bits and pieces," Steve says. "Why don't you guys go relax for a bit. This will have to simmer for a while."

Will nods and bounds out. El glances at Billy before doing the same.

When the kitchen is clear, Steve pulls out a loaf of bread. He's got his eyes on Billy-- on the way he's picking at his cuticles-- and clears his throat.

Blue eyes dart up to his.

"C'mere," Steve says. "Come cut this up for me."

So easy, Billy gets up and comes over to Steve. He takes the knife from Steve’s hand and stands at his side, cutting whatever Steve gives him. He’s close enough that Steve can feel the heat of him, the occasional brush of his arm, or the cotton of his shirt.

“They’re arguing about whether or not it’s safe to go back,” Billy says, voice dropped down low.

"I figured," Steve says. "I think it's stupid. We should wait."

Billy’s forehead creases. “We should go back. The longer we wait, the less we know and the more time they have to regroup.”

Steve frowns. "But you're safe, here."

“I’m not safe _anywhere_ , not with those assholes out there looking for me.”

"You're safe with me," Steve says.

Billy’s fingers tighten around the knife. “So, what, you just want me to hide away with you forever?”

"Would that be so bad?"

At that, Billy almost looks hurt. But then he sets his jaw and also the knife, resting it down against the cutting board. “You don’t wanna get stuck with me for the rest of your life.”

"Why not?" Steve asks. "I could help you. We could keep each other safe. I can be there for you, if you'll just let me."

“You?” Billy asks, an ugly half-laugh caught in his throat. “You’d be wasted on me, Steve.”

"No," Steve feels his heart ache. "No, I wouldn't. It wouldn't be a waste. Not for me. Not if it's you."

Billy huffs out another laugh. “Yeah, well. We’d still be stuck inside for forever. That’s no way to live.”

"Billy," Steve says, reaching out, seeking out Billy's hand with his own. "It won't be forever, okay? You just gotta be patient."

Billy tenses. Even his fingers, where they curl in Steve’s, feel rigid, strained.

“I want to go,” Billy says. “I want to go look, and I want this to be _over_ with. I don’t want to wait around.”

Steve sighs. He doesn't _get it._ He wants to, but he doesn't. He wants to run far and fast away from anything to do with all that. Wants to let the big guns do their jobs.

He wants to take Billy by the shoulders and shake him. Tell him that _he_ doesn't have to do it. _He_ doesn't have to handle it. Not alone.

"I know," Steve says. "And it will be. Just-- give it another day before we go in with our lack of guns blazing."

“Does one day actually matter?” Billy asks.

"I dunno. Yesterday, I was terrified because I wanted you to kiss me and I didn't think you ever would." Steve shrugs. "I think a day can make a huge difference."

“By tomorrow we could know where I came from,” Billy says. “We could make that difference.”

Steve sighs, again. He feels _tired_ all of a sudden.

He knows-- he _knows_ that this isn't really his decision. That this is Billy's; his trauma, his agency, his own choices on how to handle it.

But Steve's been dealing with stuff like this for _longer_. And he's _tired._

"Okay," he says, dropping his hand away from Billy's. "Okay. If that's what you want to do, that's what we'll do."

Billy’s lips twitch. Steve watches as he frowns, a little bit, as his fingers shift now, empty now that Steve’s pulled away.

“One day?” Billy says. “Just one?”

Steve offers him a little smile. "Just one."

“Okay,” Billy says, and lets out a breath, like he’d been holding it for a while. “Just one day.”

Steve hesitates. Then, he presses close and presses his mouth to Billy's cheek.

"One day," he promises. "And I can always distract you if you get too in your head about it."

Billy smiles as Steve kisses him. “Yeah? Is that a promise?”

"Yeah, I mean," Steve shrugs, pulling back, blushing a little. "If you want me to."

Billy’s smile gets a little wider, a little warmer.

He leans in, like he might take Steve up on his offer right here and now. Steve's heart leaps into his throat; he wonders if that'll ever stop--

The buzzing of the doorbell makes him nearly jump right out of his skin.

"Who the fuck is that?" Billy asks, shoulders drawing up, expression pinching.

The bell buzzes again. Steve feels a pit of dread in his belly.

He meets Billy's eyes; blue and wide and _scared_. "I don't know."

**Author's Note:**

> you can find brawlite @ [twitter](https://twitter.com/brawlite), [tumblr](http://brawlite.tumblr.com)
> 
> you can find toastranger @ [tumblr](https://toast-ranger-to-a-stranger.tumblr.com/)


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